


basement's basement.

by Zormikea



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, tags went on vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7144934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zormikea/pseuds/Zormikea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>take my hand, i'm not lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	basement's basement.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I needed to get this out of my system.
> 
> I also expected this to be, like, 10 pages long, but… you never know.
> 
> This fic is pretty big, and I’m all alone here (and tired of spending 24/7 on writing a story in a foreign language), so even though I did my best to proofread every scene, I still doubt everything is correct. For that, I am sorry.
> 
> I should also say that I’m surprised (and terrified, lol) by the lack of male Frisks. He’s not attractive enough or what? XD
> 
> p.s.: ppl who’ve been waiting for updates – I’M SORRY OTL OTL OTL  
> …why don’t you try playing Undertale while I’m writing what I actually should be writing? XDD

Frisk has never been on friendly terms with hot weather, that’s why when he first entered (or more like desperately ran into) the “welcoming” grounds of Hotland, he seriously considered turning back to Undyne, her glowing spears be damned. Fortunately, she wasn’t very fond of heat either, so at least he managed to put their chasing game to a permanent stop while they were roasting in dirt. For the whole time Sans was sleeping at a nearby outpost like dead, and none of their pleas for help succeeded in waking him up.

Frisk supposes he should feel at least a little irritated, but he’s a forgiving type of person, and besides, being angry with Sans is a task next to impossible - partly because the skeleton is way too charismatic, and partly because the boy thinks he might be watching over him. Sans doesn’t mention it, but Frisk sees him literally everywhere he goes, and that has to be more than just a continuous chain of coincidences. He’s even half certain that Sans wasn’t actually asleep back then and simply waited for him to handle the situation on his own. Which Frisk eventually did.

He may not know if all this “watching over” is a real thing, but the mere thought of it walks hand in hand with a warm feeling that soothes his heart-shaped SOUL. Sans may be the closest he’s ever had to a friend, which is kind of a big deal for someone who gets ambushed around every corner if he dares to step outside the peaceful zone.

…however, friend or not, the temperature is still _unbelievable_. Hotland burns the boy with all its might, monsters do not pass him by, and there are places Frisk himself cannot avoid visiting. He battles against dozens of enemies with words and actions only, never weapons, and has to spare every single one of them lest he wants a price on his head. As a result, by the time Frisk finally reaches the stairway to the MTT Resort, he’s so worn out that the colors in front of his eyes are blurring into a huge orange blot.

_“hey…”_

Thankfully, the temperature around the MTT building is far more acceptable, not to mention there should be a hotel somewhere in the area. Frisk is barely holding on his feet and hopes to gods that if he faints in front of the entrance, someone will have the decency to pick him up and drag him inside before he scares off other potential clients. For example, Sans could do that: he’s standing right there, by the glass doors, waving his hand like he’s trying to-

Oh.

Curiosity awakens within the boy, and he struggles to straighten his back. Sans is wearing a look that doesn’t quite fit his eternal smile – which is a rare occurrence – and Frisk wonders if something’s gone wrong. As soon as he approaches, the skeleton drops his hand to his side.

“hey, i heard you’re going to the core. how about…”

He trails off, the white dots in his eye sockets shifting down and taking in the boy’s condition. Now that Frisk is standing closer and on a spot that is properly lighted, the imprint of Hotland on his skin must be very noticeable. As if confirming that, Sans hums and tilts his chin.

“heh. guess i’m eating alone tonight,” he says.

Frisk fidgets; there’s definitely something important on the table if Sans decided to invite him to a comfort zone. He’s worried enough to clutch the opportunity, and besides, it’s been a while since Grillby’s.

“Wait.” He mimics the skeleton’s pose by putting his hands into his pockets. “I’m up for it, alright?”

“you sure?” Sans frowns, and for a moment the boy glues his eyes to the pavement where he’s kicking a random stone with a tip of his boot. The skeleton looks like he’s concerned - not like Toriel with her weirdly open nature, but in his own way - and it’s rather… pleasant.

“Yeah, why not.” Frisk nods. “I won’t be able to fall asleep on an empty stomach, anyway.”

He’s making it up; there’s hardly enough energy left in his body to keep him running. However, he doesn’t want to give up that easily.

“great, then. thanks for treating me,” Sans jokes. His frown fades, and he turns towards an alley to their right. “over here. i know a shortcut.”

Frisk still breaks his head over the skeleton’s ability to travel. It’s like he can instantly teleport from one place to another because one second they’re turning into the dark alley, and the next they’re already standing in the middle of some fancy (yet not too crowded) restaurant. The boy has a clean side of tablecloth lying in front of him, no utensils and no menu, and he blinks up at Sans to find him staring right back.

The change is so fast it overwhelms him.

“U-uh…”

A small thought pushes through the general confusion and tells Frisk that he needs to grab a menu if he’s planning to get himself fed: he only ate a hotdog Sans gave him in Hotland hours ago.

But the skeleton doesn’t let go of his attention, nor does he look anywhere else. His expression falls out of sync with his smile again, and there goes the menu.

“Is something bothering you?” Frisk asks.

“you must really wanna go home,” is the response Sans gives him. The boy swallows, and his hands grip the purplish-blue edge of the tablecloth. “hey. i know the feeling, buddo. though… maybe sometimes it’s better to take what’s given to you. down here you’ve already got food, drink, friends-”

He’s not entirely correct. For as long as Frisk can remember, monsters all over the underground have been suspicious of him, and he made “friends” by sparing those who got needlessly brave. Toriel was the only one who expressed concern, but she let the boy slip when she understood he wasn’t in for a life in prison – moreover, she made him promise he wouldn’t come back, and that’s what he’s used to. Not coming back. Not staying. Having no one to hold on to. It doesn’t matter what the human wants, and there’s no point in proving anything, either.

That doesn’t mean he’s not touched by the skeleton’s words. He trusts Sans, _a lot_ , and seeing him reluctant to part is encouraging.

“I can return later.” He shrugs. His voice sounds higher than usual. “No need to miss me… though I must admit that I’m flattered.”

He expects the skeleton to answer with a joke, like he always does, but Sans doesn’t. He doesn’t deny or accept the statement, and awkward silence fills the space between them instead.

Then, he comes up with an offer.

“let me tell you a story.”

“Eh? Okay…”

Frisk releases the cloth from his grasp and places his hands on the table. He’s got no idea why Sans chose to discard the subject so quickly, but he’s willing to follow the new one anyway.

“so i'm a sentry in snowdin forest,” the skeleton starts, and the boy instantly realizes that it’s not just a story, it actually happened.

Sans tells him about a locked door in the forest, and about a woman that lives behind it. Apparently, they’ve been bonding by telling countless jokes and laughing together. Frisk easily recognizes which door in particular Sans is talking about: it’s the door to the Ruins, Toriel’s home. As the story flows, he learns that the skeleton hasn’t had a chance to see her yet, he only heard her voice.

The boy busies himself with watching an unmoving corner of Sans’s smile as he talks; he’s going somewhere with this, Frisk can tell. Besides, if he tries to recall, didn’t he meet the skeleton in the forest? When he was on duty…

“one day, though, i noticed she wasn’t laughing very much,” Sans continues, “i asked her what was up. then she told me something strange. “if a human comes through this door… could you please, please promise something?”

It strikes.

Frisk winces like he’s been physically hit, and puts his hands together, bringing his fingers into a lock; it’s not hard to predict what it’s all about. Their numerous encounters all over the underground don’t seem so comforting anymore.

“watch over them, and protect them, will you not?”

He should have guessed. Of course it was no coincidence he kept bumping into the skeleton everywhere he went. He thought they had something special between them, something he’s never had with anyone else. Sans made him hope-

“do you get what i'm saying? that promise i made to her… you know what would have happened if she hadn’t said anything? …buddy.”

Slowly, Frisk locks his eyes with the white dots. They dim and then completely disappear in the blackness of Sans’s sockets as he says,

“ . . . Y  o  u ’ d   b e   d e a d   w h e r e   y o u   s t a n d. "

It’s so… sad. To hear that. The boy lowers his head and faces the table again; he was supposed to order some food and regain a bit of energy before going to bed, was supposed to have a nice conversation with his friend… or whatever Sans is to him now. This is not what he wanted, and honestly, he’s just heard something he was scared to hear most. Not that he picked a particular line, but the message is absolutely identical.

“Goddamn it,” he chokes out, and suddenly, laughter finds its way through his throat. The boy can’t help it - it’s too powerful for him to handle - and Sans is so quiet he’s probably surprised by the reaction his statement triggered.

“i wasn’t joking,” he eventually says, and somehow it makes the situation even more hilarious. Frisk presses a palm to his face and tries to calm down – alas, to no avail.

“It’s not…” he breathes out, “it’s not you… it’s me… _ahaha_ … I can’t… I can’t believe…”

“can’t believe it?”

Sans sounds confused.

“No, not that… ” The boy’s shoulders are shaking. “It’s me. I’m hilarious. I’m hilarious because I’m so…” he gulps and bites his lip, and the next words he says are almost inaudible, “…so freaking dumb.”

“…what?”

Frisk bites his lip again, harder, and straightens in one abrupt movement. His eyes are hurting as if someone threw salt on them.

“Thank you, Sans,” he forces out, glaring directly at the skeleton. The latter simply stands there with his stupid smile on, no “but”s, no excuses. “No, really, thank you. I’m not hungry anymore, and we didn’t order anything, so… see you later. Bye.”

The boy storms off without waiting for an answer, his feet concrete heavy. Worst thing is, he still expects Sans to call out after him... and it doesn’t happen.

Frisk spends the entire night awake.

***

A short beeping sound escapes into the warm air as the clock shows midnight. With a sigh, Frisk closes the book he’s been reading for the last two hours, puts it aside and rolls onto his stomach to reach the table from his bed:  there’s a lamp switch hanging from the corner. He presses it, and darkness fills the room completely.

It’s been ten years.

The blankets are soft around Frisk’s thin body, and monotonous chirping of crickets flows in through the open window, but he’s far from feeling peaceful. His eyes stay open as he breathes in and, for the thousandth time, _remembers_.

For the past six years Frisk has been trying to avoid other people as much as possible. He lives in a secluded area close to the forest, in a house he used to occupy before falling to the underground. It has two floors and a small garden with trees and flower bushes, and no one ever disturbs him because he doesn’t have any parents or friends - just grim memories of false friendship he once cherished.

He turned seventeen a month ago – no, actually, if he counts correctly, he’s twenty one. He went back to the drawing board at the age of fifteen, four years after the barrier was first broken. Frisk wanted to re-evaluate his opinion on a number of matters, and he wasn’t much concerned about monsters who’d abandoned him upon getting outside, so it seemed acceptable – or at least he believed that. The only thing he really accomplished was having his heart wrenched all over again.

_“is this what you want?”_

It’s incredible how many details Frisk started to pick up on during his second adventure, and a lot of things gained an entirely new meaning. He acted differently, as well: looked around every corner in the Ruins, sneaked into Toriel’s room while she was reading, found her diary… maybe if he did that in the first place, he wouldn’t be hurting so much right now.

He got nicer towards Flowey, too, mostly because of what it had done for its human friend in the past. They have their loneliness in common, that’s for sure. Too bad the flower doesn’t possess a SOUL, and they can’t help each other out, so they’re doomed to remain separated from the others while they’re having their sunny days on the surface.

_“come on. talk to me.”_

Frisk was wrong about Sans. He learned that the skeleton rarely meant it when he smiled; he _did_ smile all the time, but only because he couldn’t _not_ do that. The biggest change Sans was capable of was to slightly lower the corners of his mouth, and he needed a serious reason to do that - like a spilled bottle of ketchup. Frisk secretly enjoyed letting it fall to the floor at Grillby’s.

But that wasn’t the most important thing. Most important was Sans’s “out of sync” expression this peculiarity caused, and it happened often- no, _much more often_ than Frisk realized when he’d been an eleven year old boy.

And even though nothing changed in their relationship with the skeleton, Frisk did. It pisses him off that he cares, and he knows he won’t be able to forget the way Sans dropped his stare to the ground when he declined the restaurant invitation, or how the sun caressed his tired eye sockets when they met in that large corridor.

“Pathetic,” Frisk whispers into the dark and hides under the blanket.

***

“Uuugh… What is… oww…”

The boy comes to his senses lying flat on the floor, and his brain pulses with something fierce and not very pleasant – but not pain. It feels more like he’s been asleep for weeks, that kind of asleep that brings only tiredness afterwards.

He raises his head and opens his eyes in an attempt to get a picture of his surroundings - however, the light is blinding, so the observation is short-lived.

“Ugh…”

Frisk groans and looks down instead, trying to get used to the brightness little by little. The floor is so clear he can see his own reflection: it’s him when he was younger – eleven, to be exact – and if that, the familiar tiles and lighting are anything to go by…

…then he’s chilling in the corridor that precedes the royal chamber. The corridor where Sans should be judging him. But it’s dead silent, and no one calls out to the boy or acknowledges his presence in general.

Gradually, Frisk gets up to his feet and looks around; the place is deserted - not like it was boiling with life before, but this is just ominous. Too quiet. Furthermore, it somehow makes him shiver like _he’s_ the one responsible for the horrible stillness.

His head is throbbing now.

How did he get here? The last things Frisk remembers are the loneliness of his tiny bedroom and his undying certainty about its eternal existence. He wasn’t planning another reset, so… maybe this is a dream? He pinches his skin, and no, it’s definitely not. What’s happening?

It is then when he notices something off - an additional, foreign weight on his belt. The boy looks down, and his eyes widen as he sees a knife attached to it; it’s sharp and long and seems pretty dangerous. Since when is he carrying this around?

“so you didn’t break your nose, huh. that’s a shame,” a voice says. It catches Frisk unaware, and the boy turns around sharply, just in time to see a figure appear from behind a column.  He knows whom this shape belongs to, and the voice is far too precious to be mistaken. Frisk trembles; it’s been years, he's been missing-

Sans.

The knife loses his attention, and he steps forward without thinking.

Gets stabbed right in the chest. It’s swift and painful, and Frisk doesn’t get it at first, why it hurts so much, why there’s a bone sticking out of his body, or why the skeleton’s eyes are glowing with pure hatred. He drops to his knees and coughs, and his vision starts to swim when he hears:

“would be funnier if you broke it.”

***

It takes a whole night again for the butterscotch-cinnamon pie to get ready. Or maybe Toriel simply wants Frisk to grab some rest before eating because he’s quite certain it’s always on the table when he hits the pillow; the woman just never gives it to him earlier for some reason.

_“that’s your fault, isn’t it?”_

When the boy wakes up, the smell is divine. He rolls off his bed and finds a box to put the pie into – he’s not hungry, and besides, it stays good for a couple of days. There’s nothing better than a piece of butterscotch-cinnamon treat after a tough battle, and Frisk suspects he’ll be having a lot of them in the future.

But first…

“Flowey,” he calls, “I know you’re here. And I know you want some of that pie before we get going.”

The boy waits for half a minute, and when there’s no one responding, he adds:

“I’ve shared it once with you already. Don’t be shy.”

That works. Reluctantly, the flower shows up from around the corner of his bed, its expression a mix of irritation and slight embarrassment.

“I’m not your friend,” it mutters.

“Yeah, yeah.” Frisk nods, separating a small piece from the rest. “Just come here and open your mouth, or I’m closing the box.”

***

It’s always cold in Snowdin, but Frisk prefers snow and ice to bubbling Hotland lava because he’s able to function here at least. He’s used to the town and its residents, and knows where he needs to go if he wants to have a decent time. Would be great if monsters weren’t faking their friendliness, but the boy doesn’t complain as long as he gets to spend nights in a comfortable bed.

There’s one pressing problem, though. Frisk has been through enough resets to be able to predict what will happen, and Snowdin is considered a peaceful zone, but that’s not sufficient to grant him a deep slumber. The boy is too accustomed to being ambushed, that is why he wakes up from the faintest of noises. When he stays at the inn, he rolls around in his bed helplessly and gets four hours of sleep tops.

The only place where his defense goes on vacation is the skeleton brothers’ house, which may be due to Sans’s promise to Toriel. Frisk is still hurting and can’t forgive them, but he knows that Sans won’t allow anything bad to happen, and thus feels protected and dozes off as soon as his body crashes on the couch. It’s weird, and he prefers not to think about it.

He’s got another reason to stay here. Frisk made three resets, and if the previous two were about learning the underground mechanics, this one is about change.

And change is the first thing he does in the morning. Papyrus - the early bird of the family - walks out of the kitchen smelling like inedible breakfast, and Frisk waves his hand in greeting.

“Papyrus, hey,” he calls. “You got a moment?”

“OF COURSE,” the tall skeleton says- or more like… nevermind. He’s just that loud. “DO YOU WANT TO HAVE BREAKFAST NOW? I’VE MADE DELICIOUS PASTA, HUMAN.”

Frisk cringes – not from the spaghetti mentioning but from all the cheerfulness Papyrus throws at him without restraint. It’s incredible how lively he is.

“Maybe later,” the boy says with a polite smile. “Thank you.”

Papyrus sighs dramatically and puts his hands on his hips. “WHAT IS IT, THEN?”

Here goes nothing. Frisk gulps.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about all these letters Sans got in his mailbox.” He glances at the dirty sock that hangs by the TV. “He doesn’t really care about tidying stuff, does he? I mean, like… What if it’s something important in there, and he’s missing it? Could be a chance of his life.”

The skeleton nods slowly, sees the bait but doesn’t bite yet. Frisk pushes a bit further:

“ _Your_ _lives_.”

That does the trick. Firm passion arises within Papyrus, and he storms off towards the stairway, swinging his hands like an angry pendulum.

“SANS!!!”

Frisk clutches an armrest in excitement: if there is anyone Sans truly cares about, it’s his younger brother. He’s attentive when it comes to Papyrus, and tends to fulfill his demands, so why not use that to the boy’s advantage?

The skeleton gets to the door and bangs his fist on it.

“SANS!” he repeats, “OPEN UP!!”

No one answers for a while, but Papyrus is nothing if not persistent and taps his foot against the floor until the sound is joined by uneven, muffled thuds from inside the room. The door finally opens, and Sans peeks out, looking like he spent the entire night or two watching boring history films. Without breaks.

“what’s wrong, papyrus?” the skeleton asks, rubbing at his eye socket.

“YOU KNOW WHAT’S WRONG, SANS!” his younger brother thunders. Sans cringes as well, obviously not very happy to be dealing with such volume at this hour. “YOU NEED TO SORT YOUR MAIL!”

“my… mail, huh,” the skeleton repeats, and the white lights glue to Frisk’s face on instant. The boy merely shrugs in response.

_I’m as innocent as this dirty sock here._

“YES, YOU SHOULD HANDLE IT IMMEDIATELY!!!” Papyrus continues, “WHAT IF YOU’RE MISSING SOMETHING VITAL! SOMETHING THAT CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOREVER! OR- _OUR LIVES_! YOU BETTER CHECK IT!!”

With a heavy sigh, Sans gives in. “alright, chill. i got it.”

He disappears behind the door, and Papyrus storms back down, muttering “you lazybones” as he re-enters the kitchen. Meanwhile, Frisk rolls off the couch to do some warm up: he’s intending to go outside together with Sans because chances are he’ll just bury the letters in snow instead of reading them, and the boy doesn’t want that.

When the skeleton emerges, he’s ready to act.

“I’ll help,” he offers. Sans halts by the stairway for a second, then pulls up the hood and nods.

“thanks, kiddo.”

It takes ages. Frisk has some unexpected fun while he’s trying to pull the letters out of the stuffed box: there are so many of them he can’t draw them one by one without sending the rest into snow. It’s kind of close to a puzzle, actually, so he takes his time solving it while Sans simply stands nearby, doing absolutely nothing. He does share a couple of puns, though, and the boy laughs lightheartedly until he remembers that he’s not supposed to. Not like this.

_“are you even capable of speaking?”_

Papyrus is back to his room when they return, or has to be – the kitchen is empty, and so is the living room. Sans dumps the letters on the couch and settles next to them with the most uninspired expression ever.

“Come on, this could be fun,” Frisk says, climbing on the other side.

“yeah, you go ahead and open ‘em,” the skeleton permits without hesitation. He sinks into the cushions, picks a random letter from the top, then catches a description on its corner and tosses it away without opening. Frisk follows the letter with his eyes and snorts: it’s a mayonnaise ad; someone’s got a sense of humor.

He takes an envelope from the middle and tears its side off, curious about its contents. This one is about… mannequins? Here in the underground, Frisk has only seen dummies. Why would Sans need a mannequin, anyway?

The boy shrugs and hands it over to the skeleton, waiting for a comment. Sans doesn’t deliver. Well, maybe next one will be more helpful.

…unfortunately, it is indeed mostly junk mail. Frisk goes through a dozen of letters, and none of them contain any valuable information. Neither he, nor Sans break the sad rustling of papers for several minutes – there’s nothing to say, the ads are all identical (save for a few that are either ridiculous or outright disturbing). Gradually, the pile gets smaller, and Frisk starts to think this was a bad idea.

“see? nothin’,” Sans adds to the weight.

“We don’t know that yet.”

The boy picks another envelope, waiting for some stupid ad to meet him inside. However, he doesn’t find it - there’s a carefully folded piece of paper instead. He opens it and-

_Dear Sans,_

_it takes unbelievable courage to write this letter. I’ve been trying to do this for weeks, and each new attempt seems worse and worse, and I… I will be direct._

_For a long time, I’ve been in lo-_

“W-woah!” Frisk gasps and quickly straightens his arm, presenting the letter to its rightful owner. He clears his throat awkwardly and looks everywhere but Sans. “Um. I think it’s better if you read it…”

“me? alright,” the skeleton agrees and takes the paper. He observes it for a moment, then flashes a glance at the boy and begins, “dear sans, it takes unbelievable courage to-”

“DON’T READ IT ALOUD!” Frisk yelps, his face so hot he thinks he’s about to catch fire. He’s got no clue why, and it bothers him.

Sans lowers the letter. “why not?”

He sounds rather amused.

“Because it’s a confession, obviously,” Frisk mutters, pressing a palm to his forehead. “You’re the person it’s addressed to…” He looks at the back of the paper, and the date reads- “Oh, god. It was written two months ago.”

“really?” Sans turns it around and blinks. “oh. yeah, you’re right. heh.”

“Heh”?? Sans, it’s a love letter!” The boy lowers an eyebrow. He’s not even sure how to react anymore.

“yeah, i’m aware of that. there’s a few of them over there.” The skeleton points at the discarded pile, and Frisk gapes at it.

“Does it not bother you at all?” he asks.

“nope. why would it?”

“Well… because it’s someone’s feelings? There’s someone out there who wants to make you happy. Aren’t you interested?”

“no.”

Sans spares one last look at the letter and sends it to the pile. He doesn’t seem affected in any way, but Frisk’s gears are spinning so fast they’re almost exploding. He’s never had anyone to love him, never received love letters or even friendship ones – provided those exist. Sans got his, and the boy can’t understand why it means nothing to him.

“they don’t know me,” Sans goes on, “and if they will, it won’t last.”

“What-?” Frisk raises his eyes to look at the skeleton: there are no lights in Sans’s sockets, and he’s not facing the boy, but somehow it feels like that’s exactly what he’s doing. “What do you mean?”

There’s no way Sans remembers. Resets are memory killers for everyone except the person who launches them.

But what if he does-

“i mean,” the skeleton turns to Frisk and winks, “that i’m insufferable, yeah? heh heh.”

The lights reappear, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary anymore. Sans gathers the remaining letters and drops them into the pile without reading. Frisk doesn’t pay much attention; his brain is overloaded with questions he doesn’t have answers to.

“get rid of these for me, ok?” the skeleton says. “i’m gonna head out.”

“Head out where?” Frisk asks. “You don’t have work till tomorrow.”

Sans flashes a grin at him. “that’s right. you already miss me? i’m flattered.”

The boy opens his mouth and closes it. He knows this phrasing. Two resets ago, at the MTT restaurant, he used the same words to dodge his uncertainties. He said them out loud, to Sans. It can’t be that he remembers…? What is this, a coincidence?

Frisk doesn’t believe in coincidences.

“Sans!” he calls, and the skeleton stops by the door he’s about to open.

“yeah?”

_Do you remember?_

“you’re really not interested in anyone?” Frisk mentally slaps himself.

“nope,” Sans confirms. Then adds, “are you?”

The question is so sudden it hits the boy with an impact of a stone brick. His eyes widen, and he raises his hand to cover the emotion.

“…I don’t know.”

***

The air breathes gold when Frisk finds himself leaning to a tall pillar, with a familiar knife in his hand. It’s heavy, pushes his fingers apart, but he doesn’t let go because his brain is racing and screams at him, _keep it, keep it, keep it._

He can’t recall how he got back to the corridor. There’s this vivid image in his head, of him going through the letters, of him thinking about the possibility of being emotionally attached to someone… but not only that. He remembers being here, too. Remembers pain and bones and wild hatred in Sans’s eyes. As these pictures merge, he struggles to find his reality.

He’s at the MTT restaurant - he’s at home on the surface. He’s dying of a lethal blow to his chest – he’s alive in the Ruins. He’s in Snowdin with Sans and Papyrus…

He’s back here?

The boy looks around and learns that he’s lingering by the exit. The pillar he’s “chosen” covers him from the rest of the hall, and by extension… from Sans? He’s not sure. His head is throbbing like someone’s hitting it repeatedly with a small hammer, and he can’t understand a damn thing. What’s worse, he can’t even get scared of it properly because he’s running low on energy. Frisk is so tired he’s practically falling-

“are you done?”

The corridor jumps – or maybe it’s the boy who does. He can swear the voice of his skeleton “friend” has never sounded this terrifying, not even at the restaurant when Sans put the truth out in the open. According to Frisk’s memories, though vague, the skeleton killed him in this very corridor…

…so is this what it’s all about? He’s actually hiding from Sans? This must be an accident-

“do i really have to come over there?”

No, can’t be. Sans sounds like he’s out on a hunt, like the promise he made to Toriel weights nothing.

“you won’t survive this anyway,” the skeleton continues, his voice looming dangerously close to where Frisk is hiding, “besides, shouldn’t you be dealing with me?”

Frisk presses the knife closer to his chest as panic swells in his gut, aiding his almost headache in erasing his ability to think. Normally, Sans is calmer than a lifeless rock; doesn’t get easily irritated, not even when someone spills his ketchup. No matter how hard the boy tries to come up with a reason solid enough to turn him into a _murdere_ r, he simply can’t - it doesn’t fit into his personality.

Frisk wants to stop hiding, wants to come out and question the skeleton’s motives, ask him why they’re enemies instead of friends, and what did he do to deserve this. But coming out to face him equals being attacked, and… maybe… maybe instead of talking he should-

“found you, pal.”

The boy only has a split second to realize he’s not hiding anymore. He flinches, and his eyes dart to his left where they meet Sans’s sockets, so close it takes his breath away. He’s mortified.

“now, let’s get this over with.”

White lights brighten menacingly, and the skeleton’s smile fills with disdain as he raises his hand. Frisk recognizes the movement, runs out of time. If he wants to escape this, he needs to-

_Reset._

The boy’s hands reach up… and grasp nothing.

“…!”

The pain that follows is immense. A huge, sharp bone pierces through his middle, nearly nailing him to the pillar he’s been using as a shield. Frisk grunts and shudders, and his hands are still searching in the air, desperate to find the salvation that is there no longer.

“’s not…” He flashes a glance at Sans, “’s not…. there…”

Immediately, the skeleton stills, and the white dots of his fade into pitch black as the boy slowly sinks to the floor under his own weight.

“…what…?” he whispers.

Frisk can hardly stay conscious by now. He crawls towards the skeleton, and Sans meets him halfway, dropping to his knee bones and taking hold of the boy’s shoulders. The knife falls to the floor with a loud clank, forgotten: Frisk grips onto the skeleton’s hoodie instead, mouth opening and closing in a futile attempt to produce words – on his tongue, they are leaden.

“Sans-” he coughs, pulling down. The skeleton complies, lowers himself over the human’s body.

“frisk? this the real you?” Sans looks down from the boy’s face to his chest where the bone is sticking out, and if a skeleton could become any paler, he most certainly would. “listen… listen, kid, you’ve got to go back. now, you’ve gotta do that now.”

“ts… not…” Frisk repeats hoarsely, “’s not there…”

He blinks, trying to clear his view.

“hey, come on, buddy, this one’s a shitty stab, you can’t die from that,” Sans mutters quietly, smoothing the boy’s shirt with his gloved hand. “i've seen you survive through worse…”

Unfortunately, Frisk is pretty sure dying is exactly what he’s about to do. He coughs, and gathers the remains of his weakened energy to say:

“I can’t… undrstand anythng… Sans…”

“no, wait. you’ve got to-”

Frisk drops his head, and the room spins, colors melting and lines mixing.

He’s done for.

***

Turns out, change is not easy to achieve even with ten years of experience behind one’s back. Despite knowing exactly how and when things should happen, despite having made sure they happen differently this time round, despite putting great effort into reshaping the current so that it doesn’t return to its previous form, Frisk still ends up hearing the very same words Sans cut into his SOUL when he was a little boy.

“ . . . Y  o  u ’ d   b e   d e a d   w h e r e   y o u   s t a n d. ”

The skeleton tips his skull back just slightly, his eye sockets empty and serious, and Frisk can’t understand how this can be happening. He thinks he might faint.

Years have passed, and these words still burn like hot steel.

But this, this doesn’t come close to how hurt Frisk feels when Sans meets Toriel by the barrier again. The image of them smiling at each other has a special burrow in the boy’s memory, one it dug with its long, pointy claws, tore through the flesh and made it bleed.

He built two lives growing around Sans, spent years trying to befriend him, and not even once has the skeleton given him _this_ look, not for a second. He literally doesn’t notice anyone but Toriel despite this being a group meeting, and the boy hates it how they joke around and laugh – together, the two sides of a single coin. They aren’t alone, yet they act like they are.

How, just how does Toriel do that? Is that because they share an interest in bad jokes? Because she’s a monster?

Why?

It’s supposed to be Asgore who gets her attention… and yet, _for the third time_ , when the boy glances at the king, Asgore faces away from his wife, tears touching the corners of his eyes. He may be thinking the same.

When they’re all bathing in the light of the setting sun, and Frisk tries to distract himself by counting an approximate number of steps it will take to reach his pitiful abode, Toriel, as usual, asks him if he wants to stay with her. He knows that she’s doing that out of her so called kindness, and he also knows that her offer means he’ll be seeing a lot of the skeleton brothers – Sans hasn’t moved an inch away from her, that’s a sign. Frisk isn’t sure he’ll be able to endure more of this “great friendship”.

The boy pictures it clearly, winces (can’t be any clearer with them fooling around right beside him), and suddenly, feels so much hatred he thinks he might lose it.

He tried so hard and got nothing but a stab in his heart, and Toriel received all that he wanted with minimum effort. He’s so angry. He’s so jealous. He’s so _desperate_.

“No, thanks,” the boy says with a smile. “I have places to go.”

And so he goes. Steps forward, again and again, until his surroundings are not so bright anymore. Soon, a bed of yellow flowers appears in his view: they look nice and happy to be gathered all together like this, in this peaceful gloom. As Frisk comes closer, one of them straightens its stem and raises its head, its familiar face staring at the boy with a fake mix of curiosity and concern.

It smiles the way it always does.

“Howdy! I’m Flowey. Flowey the flower!”

“And I’m miserable,” Frisk grunts in response.

Flowey blinks at him. Then, as realization dawns upon its petals, lowers its leaves and averts its eyes with a frustrated sigh.

“Great.”

***

“Aren’t you cold?”

Frisk stretches his arms as the tall shadow of his skeleton “friend-to-be” melts in the fog: Papyrus is so pumped up about their upcoming hangout he’s swinging his hands in all directions.

…or maybe he’s just trying to wave the boy goodbye and isn’t sure where exactly he’s standing.

There used to be a time when Papyrus was a tough enemy: while in conversations he tended to be naïve and open to a point where some people questioned his intelligence, in battle he got so cunning he caught Frisk into his bone traps pretty often. But not anymore. The boy’s got a few cuts on his body, here and there, from the unlucky dodges, but otherwise he’s feeling fine and isn’t bleeding.

He’s flattening the thick shirt over his stomach when the snow in front of him starts to shift and eventually rises, forming a small opening. Flowey glares at him from below, its lips in a tiny pout.

“I really don’t like you,” it states, ignoring the question.

“Yeah, you and the rest of this place,” the boy shrugs.

“Then why do you keep resetting?”

Frisk hums and shrugs again, then nods in the direction of Waterfall. “Well, I’m off.”

“Yeah, like I care,” the flower snorts before fully disappearing under the snow again. Frisk knows it does care, though: not unlike Sans, Flowey has a habit of following him around.

The boy didn’t bother hiding anything from the flower this time, just put everything straight on the table: information on their battle, on Flowey’s origin, on the previous resets. The flower isn’t fond of Frisk’s knowledge and behaves mostly aggressive, which is understandable: it was expecting an easy chance of getting the SOULs, after all. Now it doesn’t have any secrets up its sleeve, and Frisk looks way too confident to give any hopes.

Despite all that, Flowey seems to enjoy the attention it is getting. Mute and observing during the previous three walkthroughs, it now strikes conversations itself from time to time – mostly attempting to annoy Frisk, but still.

The boy knows that, even lacking a SOUL, it’s interested in their connection. For Flowey, this relationship is something different, something fresh, something it hasn’t experienced enough during its own resets.

…both of them could use this.

***

Frisk likes Waterfall. He likes water in general, especially soaking in it, that’s why he didn’t hesitate to do some exploring and found himself a nice, solitary place where he can swim around without a care in the world, surrounded by glowing echo flowers and rough cave walls. To him, a boy who’s used to living in constant danger, this place is a sanctuary, a chamber no one besides him visits, and isolation is what Frisk needs most right now, so he opts to head there before confronting Undyne.

“Where are you going? That’s the wrong way.”

Oh, right. In the light of recent events he completely forgot about Flowey. The smile Frisk wears when he glances back at it is the one he mastered during his sickening travels to the surface. “I’m going for a swim,” he says. “So you better wait for me here unless you want to catch an eyeful of naked human body.”

“Ugh…”

That’s all Frisk gets before the flower leaves him to his devices.

It’s relatively easy to reach his destination without getting into trouble: among others, the boy has a detailed map of Waterfall stashed in his brain. Had a physical copy of it too, with plenty of helpful notes – unfortunately, it disappeared together with his other items upon reset.

The tunnel he has to pass through is narrow and includes a number of twists, half of which Frisk has to overcome blindly, but the reward is beautiful. The small cave that opens to him comes straight out of a fairy tale book, with crystal clear pool in its middle and echo flowers growing all around, lighting it like small blue lamps. The walls are lower here than anywhere else in Waterfall, but there’s plenty of space for a child.

Frisk takes off his clothes and puts them on a flat rock that rests among flowers by the wall, then dips his toes into the water. It’s cool and pleasant to the touch, and soon he slides the rest of his body in, taking a seat on the largest stone. The boy crosses his legs and hugs himself as he relaxes; his thoughts, however, are hard to put in order.

He declined Sans’s invitation to grab a bite at Grillby’s. Didn’t plan to, but the words came out without waiting for his approval. It’s because he’s discouraged, doesn’t know how to make things different, how to make Sans look at him when they reach the barrier... no, not only then. Always. It’s okay if the skeleton ends up being friends with Toriel, Frisk just doesn’t want to be forgotten, wants to have his own corner in Sans’s heart. He’s not asking for much, is he?

Now that he’s thinking about it, he avoided the skeleton back in Snowdin, too. Laughed at his jokes but ran away whenever it became an option. That doesn’t put him any closer to his goal, but he can’t do anything about it. And Sans, he must have noticed…

“Goddamn it,” Frisk mutters, brushing his hair back with his wet fingers. Beside him, a flower comes to life and bends its stem with a whisper:

_~Goddamn it.~_

If these were any louder, the boy would probably jump out of his skin. But they aren’t, so he only feels a shiver.

“Ah. Forgot about you,” he breathes out.

 _~Ah. Forgot about you,~_ the flower repeats as if it’s mocking him – thankfully, the rest of them are farther away from Frisk and don’t seem that interested in straining their petals.

The boy frowns and turns toward the flower, his hands shifting down to wrap around his knees.

“You won’t shut up now, will you?” he asks with a sigh.

“nope, it won’t,” an answer comes, but not from the flower – from behind Frisk. It takes a lot from him not to yelp and alert the remaining whisperers; he flinches, begins to turn around, then remembers he’s wearing absolutely nothing.

He’s wearing absolutely nothing, and Sans is standing right behind him.

If Frisk’s thoughts had a slim chance of falling in order before, now they’re in utter chaos. He freezes, doesn’t move an inch, can’t come up with what to say. The boy knew that the skeleton was keeping an eye on him but didn’t expect him to follow all the way here. He’s never done this. What triggered this?

“Uuum…” he begins and finishes, dumbfounded, and Sans chuckles at his confusion.

“nice place you got here, kiddo,” he says. “mind if i stick around?”

Goosebumps throw a party on Frisk’s skin, and he sinks lower to drown them all in the water. He forced his company upon Sans throughout the previous runs, and the skeleton kept his distance in return, so this must have something to do with the boy avoiding him.

Which… doesn’t explain anything. Sans isn’t interested in friendship, and fulfills his promise as long as Frisk stays safe, so why is he here? What’s the point in sticking around someone you don’t care about?

“I’m a bit naked, Sans,” the boy answers, and hates how trembling his voice is. “Why would you want to be here at this time?”

Another chuckle comes from behind him. “it’s not like that. i just need to wash my hands. wasn’t very careful with some stuff.”

 _Wash his hands?_ Things are getting weirder and weirder. Sans has an unspoken rule not to remove his gloves - Frisk doesn’t know why, maybe because the skeleton doesn’t like seeing his own bones? But that can’t be possible, right?

…why now?

“What kind of stuff?” the boy wonders aloud, looking back over his shoulder. He regrets doing so when he sees the skeleton at the entrance, illuminated by the echo flowers from all sides. Sans brings his hands up, and there are red spots all over his gloves - presumably from the telescope joke he prepared up ahead.

Frisk lowers an eyebrow: this is new. Sans is not known for being clumsy, and he managed to ready the first three jokes just fine, so… this is intentional? This has to be intentional.

…and if the boy continues thinking in that direction, his brain will explode.

_~What kind of stuff?~_

Sans doesn’t care about him, right?

Right?

Yet… there’s plenty of water everywhere in Waterfall. Sans could have gotten what he wanted if he’d walked several meters south of his station, and he came here.

“Suit yourself. Just don’t stare at me, deal?”

“deal.”

Frisk pulls his knees up and presses them to his chest – Sans doesn’t look at him just like he promised, but the boy feels vulnerable nonetheless. He watches as the skeleton settles by a long water curve, facing the tunnel – unfortunately, that position leaves his hands out of sight, and all the boy can do is listen to lazy splashes.

He’s frustrated with this turn of events, and starts to fidget when the skeleton puts his gloves on a rock beside him. Is it even healthy to want to see his hands so much?

Or maybe he’s overthinking it?

Frisk clears his throat.

“Sans-”

_“you’re the type of person who won’t EVER be happy.”_

“…eh?”

The skeleton shifts his upper part and stares at a wall, showing that he’s aware he’s being addressed but doesn’t intend to break the deal.

“what’s it, buddy?” he asks, and Frisk gapes at him for a moment.

“Did you just say something?” he answers with a question of his own. “Something about… I don’t know? I didn’t quite catch.”

Sans tilts his skull. “no, i  didn’t say anything. maybe it’s your flower.”

 _~I didn’t quite catch,~_ the flower adds, bouncing its leaves happily.

“Alright…” Frisk mutters, and leans back into stones. It’s strange, he thought he really heard Sans saying something. It was definitely his voice…

Weird.

“that aside,” the skeleton pulls him out of it, “you’re, uh, staring at my back. there something on my hoodie?”

How did he even notice? Nervousness kicks in and resumes the boy’s fidgeting, and that in its turn disturbs the water. Sans stops whatever it is he’s doing.

“is there?”

“What? No, it’s clean,” Frisk answers, willing himself to still. “It’s just… I haven’t seen your hands before.”

“huh.”

“…aaand I was wondering if you could… you know. Show me.”

Sans doesn’t answer at first, and silence fills the cave, pushing down on the boy’s backbone. He bites his lip, hoping he didn’t say something stupid.

“so…” the skeleton begins, “it’s not allowed for me to look at your naked parts, but you want to look at mine? that’s kind of unfair, kid.”

Well, there goes the opportunity.

“…I know,” the boy sighs. “Sorry. Don’t know what bit me.”

Sans lets out a short laugh. “it’s okay, though. i can help you with this one.”

“You can?”

“yeah, but you’ll have to move here. come on, i won’t look.”

Frisk has never thought his eyes could get this wide. He spends a few seconds figuring out if he’s just heard something that wasn’t said again, then a dozen more trying to understand what’s going on in this cave. Sans can’t be suggesting what he thinks he is… But the skeleton doesn’t return his hands to the water, and watches the wall patiently, waiting.

The temperature wasn’t so high before.

“Um,” Frisk pauses and rubs the back of his neck, “I’m not sure about this…”

He’s lying; his heart is pounding violently against his chest, in a rhythm that suspiciously resembles a _go go_ mantra. There’ve been enough times when Frisk pictured scenarios similar to this, willingly or not, and none of them were unsatisfying.

“ok then.” Sans shrugs, taking his lack of response for an answer. “your choice.”

The boy clenches his fingers into fists; no, he doesn’t want to waste this chance no matter what. He might not get a second one.

“I didn’t say no,” he objects and starts moving towards the skeleton, cautious not to slip as he places his feet from one stone to another. He can’t predict what will happen once he reaches Sans, and honestly, he feels a little frightened.

Frisk comes to a halt just behind him, and the skeleton wipes his hands on the hoodie.

“so. you ready?” he asks.

If there was a lump-in-your-throat-forming contest, the boy is almost certain he would win.

“I guess…” he answers.

“great.” Sans glues his eyes to the uneven ceiling. “i won’t look either. stretch out your hand.”

Frisk’s certainty reaches one hundred percent.

“What are you-”

“just do it.”

“…okay.”

The boy lets out a strained breath, focusing on the skeleton’s hoodie: it’s somehow easier to fulfill the request without looking at what he’s doing. He lifts his right arm and holds it straight so that it comes forward and past Sans, touches the blue cloth just barely. He assumes that-

The skeleton grips his hand, and Frisk’s heartbeat jumps from violent to insane.

“alright.”

“W-w-wait, what are you-” The boy attempts to say something but swallows the words when the blunt tips of Sans’s finger bones brush against his open palm. It tickles, sends shivers down his spine. He thought they would be much colder.

What comes next makes his brain crash altogether.

Sans leans back, just a little, and nearly bumps into his front. His hand presses against Frisk’s, and the boy’s instincts take over his body, overwhelming him like a tidal wave. He spreads his fingers, intertwines them with Sans’s, and if the skeleton is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t even twitch.

Frisk thinks he might be dying.

Sans’s back looks so inviting, he simply can’t afford to leave it without his attention… but that would be too much, wouldn’t it? So he gives in partially, lets his forehead fall onto the skeleton’s shoulder - the fabric is smooth and has a faint, somehow comforting smell that quickly drives into Frisk’s memory and names itself “Sans”.

You’d be dead where you stand.

What’s going on? The boy suspects he’s missing something vital because miracles like this don’t just arrive at one’s doorstep, there should be more to this whole situation. But… it’s been more than ten years since he last experienced this peace. The way they’re touching feels too nice to overshadow it with unnecessary doubts. Frisk fears it will be over if he does.

“hey, don’t fall asleep on me, kid.” Sans pats his hand gently.

This peace, does he feel it too?

“There’s something I want to ask,” Frisk says.

“yeah?”

“Do you feel anything? Like warmth or… the texture of my skin, or… something else?”

The skeleton turns back slightly, takes a while to answer. “you can’t tell?”

Frisk rubs his forehead against the fabric. “No.”

“hmm.”

Suddenly, the boy wishes they were facing each other. He wants to see what expression Sans is wearing right now.

“well. to put it short – yeah, i do. probably not the same way _you_ do, though.”

“Can you explain?” Frisk pushes – and that’s a bad decision, perhaps, because Sans takes his hand away, breaking the contact. The boy curses himself for that.

“nah, not right now,” he says. ”i should return to my station, or i’m gonna have a bad time. we can save this for later, though. ok, buddy?”

Frisk allows himself one last inhale of the soothing scent and then raises his head with all reluctance in the world.

“Yeah,” he agrees, crawling back to give Sans some space.

“good. come find me when you're outta here, then. we’ll talk.” The skeleton picks up his gloves, puts them on and steps towards the exit. Frisk doesn’t know how to understand his lack of reaction - it’s as if nothing extraordinary has happened just now.

That, and there’s a ton of unanswered questions running wild: he doesn’t know how he hasn’t broken down or exploded yet. Frisk is retreating towards his clothes, battling against all of them at once when Sans’s voice reaches him again:

“if you stop messing around, that is.”

***

It’s the third time it happens, and although Frisk still takes a while to gather his wits (patiently ignoring the throbbing in his head), he doesn’t waste an eternity on hiding behind the pillar, and doesn’t run from danger when it comes searching for him – the boy knows it’s useless, and besides, he’s in for a talk.

Earlier, through the rapidly descending unconsciousness, he caught bits and pieces of what Sans was saying when he leaned over: the skeleton wants a reset, and Frisk is more than willing to deliver if he gets to the bottom of his missing ability.

“this is familiar,” Sans’s voice reaches him, “you’ve already tried hiding, haven’t you?”

Strange. He sounds… tired. Frisk can hear dry, heavy breaths clinging to the skeleton’s words. Before doing anything to find out, however, he looks up to see if anything changed while he was gone. As he expected, there’s just emptiness.

Well, then. He’s got this. He hopes.

“Wait. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The sound of footsteps dies, alerting the boy that Sans has heard him at least. No attack is launched against him, and that is a good sign as well.

“isn’t it a little late for talking?” the skeleton asks.

“I don’t think so,” Frisk presses. “Listen, how about… here, let me do something first.” He detaches the knife from his belt and throws it aside. It hits the floor a few feet away. “See? I’m not armed anymore. Let’s talk. You can kill me after if you so desire.”

Taking into consideration the previous “meetings”, throwing away his only weapon is equal to asking for a swift execution. Living through the painful events over and over again is not what Frisk would choose, and the concept of being stuck in an endless circle is making him nauseous, but he feels determined, trusts Sans to make the right choice.

“come out.”

The boy sighs and obeys, his feet heavy as he drags himself from behind the pillar. He hopes he’s not making a mistake, and almost delves into the resetting problem when he gets out, but words get stuck in his throat. In front of him, Sans is barely holding upright, his shoulders are slouching, and there are small beads of sweat dripping down his skull. He’s completely worn out.

“Um,” Frisk steps closer, and the skeleton jerks his hand up, ready to strike. Bad idea. “Okay, okay, I’m not moving. Sorry. What happened? You look exhausted...”

Sans doesn’t answer and doesn’t drop his hand, just glares at Frisk like he’s said something unbelievably stupid.

“what do you want?” he asks.

“Right, uh… about resetting,” the boy begins, and Sans’s fingers twitch as if the words bit him. “You want me to “go back”, right? You told me so.”

The skeleton snorts. “yeah. i probably did.”

He looks somewhat… angry.

“So… I wanted to tell you that I can’t. I-I lost this ability. I really don’t know how and… there’s more.” Frisk does his best not to be affected by the glare that’s directed at him. He’s failing. “I haven’t figured out how this works yet, but I think I’m stuck in a loop? I keep going through my memories, then hop in here. You kill me, I get to re-live my past without any clue... And when I come back, you kill me again. It repeats.”

The skeleton stands there for a moment, ribs restless under his shirt. Then he finally lowers his hand and slides it into a pocket. “well, isn’t this interesting.”

“I don’t want to fight you, and I cannot reset. But… there’s got to be a way. There’s got to be-”

“heh. ok. i got it,” Sans cuts him off. Despite the conversation in progress, he looks nowhere near relaxed, which is even more unsettling. “you haven’t mentioned it, so i'm assuming you don’t remember killing papyrus, is that correct?”

Silence that follows is deafening. Frisk forgets how to breathe, catches the oxygen with his mouth like a fish that’s out of water.

“Wh… what?” he forces out.

Sans watches him closely, and the knife that’s lying a few meters away starts making sense. Their entire fight starts making sense.

“Oh my god…” The boy’s knees give out, and he falls to the floor, hands bumping against the glassy surface. “This can’t be happening…”

“i'm assuming you don’t remember killing everyone else, either.”

The knife is lying a few meters away, yet Frisk feels it deep in his back. That’s accurate, he doesn’t recall killing anyone, only the previous peaceful encounters. Sans is telling the truth, though, has to be - and if so, then how did it come to this? Frisk wouldn’t want to hurt anyone, least of all Papyrus: that guy is more of a child than he is, killing him is a sin.

“I can’t believe it…” the boy mutters, looking up. “Was I trying to kill you too?”

“yeah,” Sans confirms. His voice sounds a bit softer. “but don’t worry, buddo. i’m pretty good at ruining your plans. it's been about… what, sixteen attempts? or seventeen? can't really tell. ”

“Seventeen?!” Frisk gasps, “But… I… this is the third time I’m here…”

He shudders, and his hands jump up to wrap around him.  There’s something terribly wrong with his self-control; Sans told him they were fighting, but Frisk wasn’t there to witness it, which means that…

… _someone else_ was. Someone else keeps him trapped in his own body and owns his ability to control the timeline.

“Sans…” he chokes out, “What’s going on?”

His trembling must be very noticeable because the skeleton does relax this time. He steps closer, then lowers himself on one knee to meet Frisk’s eye level.

“you said you lost your power?” he asks.

“That’s right…”

“well, then you need to find it, and take it back. and you better do it fast because i can’t buy you much time. it's getting harder to come up with new moves, and that other side of yours is a pretty good learner.”

 _That’s_ why he’s exhausted, Frisk realizes, and the scene gains a new angle of horror.

“I uh… I was thinking you might be able to help?” he questions. Sans shakes his skull once. “Or… Flowey? It may know what to do.”

That earns him a stare.

“flowey the flower,” Sans says slowly, “should be your last resort.”

“Yeah, but according to you, the underground is dusted, and you’re the next living thing in my vicinity. Neither of us knows what to do, and I think I’m about to pass out from all this,” Frisk objects. “Sounds like a last resort case to me.”

Sans blinks, probably surprised by the boy’s unintentional attempt at a gruesome pun. He lets out an uneven breath and then settles on the floor, not very close to where Frisk is sitting, but not a mile away, either.

The boy’s vision blurs for a second, and he wonders if he’s actually going to pass out. His head is developing an ache, as well.

“even if that flower can help you, what makes you think it will?” the skeleton asks.

“Well… It’s still alive, isn’t it? I don’t see why – if I was a full-fledged murderer, I mean – why I would want to keep it that way.”

“makes sense. unless it snatches the SOULs and finishes us both. or, as the story may go, the three of us.”

“I guess that’s a leap that should be ta-”

The ache suddenly hops up, and Frisk hisses, gripping his head with both hands. Sans almost dashes towards him but freezes on his spot for some reason.

“frisk?” he calls worriedly.

“Aghhh…” the boy moans, and falls on his side. He rolls on his back, clutches his hair - the pain is so sharp it pulses in his eyes and blinds him.

Frisk thinks he’s screaming, thinks it might be the skeleton’s name, but the golden light disappears too quickly, and together with it disappears the corridor. For a split second, an image of a child in a striped shirt flashes under his eyelids, and then everything goes black.

***

“over here. i know a shortcut.”

Frisk fears the inevitable but follows Sans into the alley anyway.

Hotland took its toll: they’d agreed to discuss the “feeling” subject next time they met, but the boy’s vulnerability to heat prevented them from bringing it up – or anything else to that matter. He thinks it might surface at the restaurant, and that’s half of the reason he accepted the invitation, the other half being his curiosity about Sans’s behavior as of late. Frisk still hasn’t figured out why the skeleton joined him in that cave, or why he initiated a physical contact.

That, and there’s a “stop messing around” line stuck in his head on repeat.

They get to the same place as always - purplish-blue tablecloth, no utensils on Frisk’s side. The boy pushes the sleep out of his eyes, focuses on Sans who’s standing across, smiling at him.

“well, here we are.”

Or is he? The “out of sync” is there.

“Is something bothering you?” Frisk asks out of habit.

You must really wanna go home, he answers himself.

“you must really wanna go home,” Sans says.

Frisk doesn’t.

“hey. i know the feeling, buddo. though… maybe sometimes it’s better to take what’s given to you. down here you’ve already got…”

Food. Drink. Friends. The boy knows this spiel by heart but listens closely: what if something changed? Maybe that thing they had in Waterfall actually means something even if Sans seemed totally unaffected by it.

He clutches the tablecloth again, bites the inside of his cheek: he’s starting to feel nervous. Sans doesn’t look like he’s noticed, though, and that’s good. Frisk doesn’t want to ruin their non-existent meal by distracting the skeleton with this rubbish.

“let me tell you a story.”

Here comes the main course. First time the boy heard it, it pierced through his SOUL and left a hole in its middle, and whenever it returns, it does so with a cleaver to chop off the healing meat. The breakfast at Grillby’s, it chopped off. The letter sorting, it chopped off.

The moment at Waterfall…

“so i'm a sentry in snowdin forest, right? i sit out there and watch for humans. it's kind of boring. fortunately, deep in the forest… there’s this HUGE  locked door. and it’s perfect for practicing knock knock jokes. so one day, i'm knocking ‘em out, like usual.”

It’s okay if he goes all the way there, Frisk thinks. He’s okay with hearing the “dead where you stand” part as long as it’s not the last thing Sans gives him. Who knows, maybe they _will_ return to their previous topic…?

“one day, though, i noticed she wasn’t laughing very much.”

There it goes. The boy braces himself.

“do you get what i'm saying? that promise i made to her… you know what would have happened if she hadn’t said anything? …buddy.”

Sans watches him with lightless eyes.

“ . . . Y  o  u ’ d   b e   d e a d   w h e r e   y o u   s t a n d. ”

Frisk takes a deep breath; the skeleton might as well season his wound with a pinch of salt. He doesn’t even have to attack to make him suffer.

Still, he waits, believes in the closeness they shared in that cave. Any second now, Sans should brush it off, or tell Frisk it’s not like that anymore, that they’re friends now. That he doesn’t have to leave.

“hey, lighten up, bucko! i'm just joking with you.”

The boy’s cheek hurts, but he can’t stop biting it.

“besides… haven’t i done a great job protecting you? i mean, look at yourself. you haven’t died a single time.”

No, this isn’t right, and it has nothing to do with Frisk’s death - even though he’s had plenty. Once he got so unlucky Toriel ended him with an attack so weak it shouldn’t be called one.

It’s about how Sans says this. He admits that the boy is alive thanks to Toriel, and does brush it off in the end, only… it’s not enough. It’s not what Frisk wanted. There’s no regret to it, no doubt, no anything. The skeleton’s smile isn’t sincere.

After what they’ve been through, he hasn’t come to care about Frisk at all.

“hey, what’s that look supposed to mean? am i wrong…?”

The boy shrugs absently, glues his eyes to a wall: he can’t bring himself to look at Sans anymore. Soon, he hears footsteps - just like this, the skeleton is abandoning him again.

“well, that’s all,” he says. “take care of yourself, kid. ‘cause someone really cares about you.”

At this, Frisk’s eyes widen.

Toriel. He’s talking about Toriel. Another slap in the face, and he reaches the limit.

The lights flicker.

“Dead where I stand,” he echoes. “Heh. Funny, isn’t it?”

The words make Sans stop dead in his tracks. He turns around to look at the boy once more.

“funny? what is?”

He sounds serious, and frowns when he catches the emotional void on Frisk’s face.

“All of it,” the boy answers, placing his hands on the table and leaning on them. “You know what, Sans? I’ve had enough.”

The skeleton’s frown deepens as he makes his way back to the table.

“Dead where you stand,” Frisk repeats, “And how many times do you think I’ve heard that already?”

“…-”

Sans is about to say something when the implication hits him. His face darkens.

“frisk.”

“How old do you think I am?” the boy pushes. It’s a bomb, he knows, but he drops it. Sans’s smile quivers as if he’s been hit. “I’m twenty two, Sans. Not really a kid, huh?”

Now it’s out in the open, but Frisk is past caring. Sans should be overwhelmed by all this - he doesn’t remember anything from the previous runs, after all. Chances are, he’ll question if the boy has gone bonkers-

“i figured,” is the response Frisk gets instead. He glances up.

So, Sans _does_ remember – to some extent, at least. He’s just been hiding it like everything else, leading Frisk to believe in something that never was.

The moment in Waterfall was a big, fat lie. Frisk feels so angry he wants to flip the table and be done with this scene.

“Good job,” he grunts. “I’m out of cookies, though, so you get nothing.”

He can’t recall seeing such anger on Sans’s face. The skeleton’s lights must have disappeared forever, and he’s clenching the fabric of his hoodie with surprising diligence – his tense fists are visible through the pockets. Frisk can’t tell why he’s so furious, but that doesn’t matter.

“Serves you right,” he spits the venom. “You hurt me so many times, I’m happy I got you at least once.”

Sans takes a step forward.

“ K i d. ”

“Don’t you “kid” me!” he snaps. “All you people did was hurt me, repeatedly, and I gave you the surface in return! I gave you YEARS of happy lives! All of that just to… just…” He feels sick. “To hear this “dead where you stand” crap all over again!”

The skeleton’s smile drops more, and it’s followed by a nasty cracking sound – Frisk guesses it’s painful. Some of his rage fades away, replaced by unwelcomed concern, and he hates it.

“correct me if i'm wrong,” Sans hisses, “but you brought us up to the surface, several times, and then went back here.”

“Yes,” the boy confirms. “And that’s what I was planning to do this time, too.”

The skeleton lowers his chin. “was?”

“Yes, Sans. Was. You think you monsters deserve any help from me? I told you before, all you do is hurt. Your precious Toriel – you know her name, yeah? That “lady” from behind the door? Well she kicked me out because I didn’t want to stay locked up with her forever. And the others? If I dare to step outside Snowdin or MTT Resort, I’ll be attacked on sight and without remorse. Everyone either tries to kill me or is happy to see me leave. Even Papyrus. Even you.” It’s too late to stop now, so he goes on. “Yet all I have been doing is sparing the hostile and giving you what you desire. You – those who don’t give a shit about me-”

Somewhere mid his monologue Sans straightens up, and his fists loosen. He begins to talk back, but at the same time lights flicker again and start to dim rapidly, attracting Frisk’s attention. He wonders why this is happening.

“…but you’re wrong,” Sans is saying, “none of them wants to hurt you.”

Suddenly, the boy’s head starts to hurt. Insanely. He grasps it and fights a scream that’s bubbling in his throat. The skeleton doesn’t react to that.

“…not getting us anywhere, kid,” he continues, “or… whatever you are. it's not that important.”

“S….Sans…” Frisk calls hoarsely.

“why do you keep coming back? you have a reason, don’t you?”

The lights die out; Frisk can’t see the skeleton anymore. Thankfully, the pain subsides, though leaves him with thoughts heavier than mountains. The boy struggles to think clearly – to no avail. Sans’s question glues to his brain and refuses to go, however, shines like a giant lantern.

“It’s… it’s because…”

“listen. i know you didn’t answer me before but…”

Pain cuts through again, and Frisk can’t stand upright anymore, so he stumbles forward. Purplish blue swims in front of his eyes, and he steps right through.

“finally,” the black mist before him speaks. “i know how hard it must be… to make that choice.”

“Sans…” Frisk groans, approaching.

“c’mere, pal.”

The boy takes one more step and finds himself clinging to the skeleton’s arms. There’s a big stew of thoughts and feelings bubbling inside him, and Frisk can’t recall what’s been going on except for the question Sans asked him.

He leans in and wraps his hands around the skeleton, sighing in relief when Sans does the same. Unfortunately, his happiness doesn’t last because pain strikes again, but not his head – his back. Frisk’s muscles give out – still, he holds onto Sans’s clothes, presses his lips to the side of his skull.

“I love you,” he whispers his answer.

Gold slides through the darkness, and the singing of birds invades the boy’s ears. All he manages to notice, though, is how the skeleton’s grip tightens on the small of his back.

.

.

.

.

.

.

***

Frisk stops fighting it the third time it happens. He stops blaming himself after fifth, and ninth is when he accepts it as an indispensable part of his life and gives up counting. The downside has an awfully bad taste, but a drug is a drug, and the longest he can survive without it is a week, and only if he’s stubborn enough. He’s not very stubborn these days.

The bed creaks under his weight - the sound drowns in music that flows into his ears through the big headphones. Warm colors of late sunlight fall on his skin, and he arches his back in return, lets them envelop him whole.

A groan that escapes his lips sounds a lot like a name.

_come on, kid. you want to touch me, don’t you? do it._

The image is alive under his eyelids, and the ghostly touch of Sans’s finger bones feels as good as real when they brush against his hip and trail up his side. Frisk sinks deeper into the blankets and lets out a shaky breath.

“Sans,” he calls.

_yeah._

He can’t feel the hardness of the skeleton’s femurs against his thighs, but that’s okay, he’s used to it, doesn’t think about it as much anymore. It’s easy to ignore, especially when Sans slips a hand into his briefs and starts _touching_ him there. Frisk remembers his fingers as if Waterfall happened yesterday, knows their exact temperature and shape.

“Sans…”

_i'm right here, frisk._

Sans strokes him, gently and first, then rougher, just the way Frisk likes. He grabs the skeleton’s shoulders and pulls him down, desperate to feel, to kiss, to bite, anything - their mouths crash against each other in a messy mix of presses and licks.

It’s perfect.

Sans cups Frisk’s cheek with his free hand, and their eyes lock.

 _i'm right here,_ he repeats.

It’s enough to send Frisk over the edge. Always enough.

He lets himself lie for a few moments after he’s done, enjoys the aftermath while it lasts. His hand crawls to the table and snatches a tissue from the box.

Mistake after mistake.

As he’s cleaning himself, a helpless laugh flies out of his mouth. _Such a pretty boy shouldn’t be sitting here all alone,_ a girl told him earlier today, bending over his working table so that her breasts were in plain view. _I know what you need: a good, hot chick under you. Sounds good?_

“A short skeleton-comedian sounds better,” Frisk answers to no one in particular.

He’s sixteen - twenty seven in overall - and after all these years he’s still living alone and avoiding people, dealing with them only at a small library where he works part-time. He guesses he’s become somewhat handsome these days - girls continue flirting with him even after he asks them not to. Some boys, as well.

He read in a book somewhere that clinging to one’s past is a destroying habit, but there’s just not enough strength in him to let go – besides, he doesn’t want to. He tried fooling himself once, told himself he could move on and settle with someone else, but that lie was so fragile it collapsed the second he touched himself. So, he decided he’d live with it. Suffer through it. Whatever.

Resetting doesn’t seem like an option anymore: Frisk doesn’t want to re-live the underground hell even if it means he and Sans will never talk to each other again. Their quarrel at the MTT restaurant wasn’t only the end of their fake friendship, it was the end of everything, including his endurance. Going back for a similar outcome costs an arm and a leg, and Frisk is already beyond crippled.

Sans didn’t talk to him at the corridor, didn’t look at him by the barrier. Weird thing was he didn’t look at anyone – save for Toriel, of course, but even she didn’t get much attention. Frankly, the skeleton changed a lot since that talk, became quieter, withered like a forgotten plant. Frisk supposes he’s better now, though: who wouldn’t bloom by Toriel’s side with all those butterscotch-cinnamon pies and skeleton puns?

“Alright, stop,” Frisk tells himself. He bats the grim thoughts away and moves to the edge of the bed where his jeans and t-shirt are waiting: got some chores to do, and the garden needs… well, gardening. He thinks he’s run out of milk, too, got to take a bike to the nearest store.

Sans is smiling-

No.

He gets up, grabs his bag from the table and pulls it over his shoulder, then goes for the keys. As he’s approaching the stairway, however, his cell explodes with a long-forgotten melody he set for… Papyrus, years and years ago. Which can’t be real because there’s no way the skeleton knows his new number: Frisk changed it as soon as he separated from the others.

He flips the cell open and brings it to his ear.

“Hel-”

“HUMAN?!”

He rips it away immediately. Even from a distance, Papyrus is so loud he can probably be heard throughout the neighboring forest. Where did he learn the number?

“HUMAN?! IS THAT YOU?!” the skeleton thunders.

Frisk puts him on speaker - safer for his ears. “Yeah, it’s me. Hey.”

He hears an excited inhale.

“NYEHEHEHEHEEEE! HUMAN! I’M SO HAPPY TO HEAR YOU!!” the phone continues to roar, “WHERE DID YOU RUN OFF TO?”

Frisk lets out a short laugh: Papyrus makes it sound like he disappeared an hour after promising to return with snacks bought in a store on the other side of the street.

“I’m living alone now, Papyrus,” he says. “It’s been ages.”

“HAS IT?” Papyrus wonders. “WELL, TIME SURE RUNS FAST WHEN YOU ARE A TALENTED, GIFTED, UNBELIEVABLY POPULAR CHEF! OH, AND BY “YOU” I MEAN “ME”!! HAVE YOU SEEN THE LATEST SHOW YET???”

Frisk hasn’t, but he’s heard of a skeleton who made it to the top. He’s seen a couple of ads.

“No, sorry, I was working,” he answers. “Heard about you, though, good job. I bet you have insane queues for spaghetti now.”

“INDEED I DO!” Papyrus laughs. “AND!! SINCE YOUR NUMBER IS RECOVERED, I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM INVITING YOU FOR DINNER! WHAT DO YOU SAY?!”

“U-uh…”

First thing that comes to Frisk’s mind is rejection. It’s doubtful he’ll be the only person at the table, especially now that Papyrus is an acknowledged master: Sans will be there, Toriel will be there – everyone will be there. He doesn’t want to see them, and he’s pretty sure Sans won’t be happy to see him at their house, either.

Speak of the devil. Frisk hears a dull sound on the other side, like someone has opened a door, and Papyrus begins to shout, forgetting about his offer on instant.

“SANS! I FOUND THE HUMAN’S PHONE NUMBER!!”

Frisk’s heart skips a beat. He reaches back and feels for a chair, then drops himself on it. The cell is practically sewed to his ear again, and he’s almost stopped breathing just to be able to hear Sans’s voice.

What he hears for the next dozen of seconds or so, however, is absolute silence. It terrifies him how easily he can picture Sans staring at the space before him, his eyes lightless and hands frozen in his pockets.

Papyrus confirms it.

“SANS! WHAT’S WITH THAT FACE?! COME SAY HI!!”

“Papyrus-” Frisk starts to object, but that’s when Sans answers, too, sending his heartbeat to the insane zone.

“hi,” he says in a bored voice, then addresses his younger brother again. “i’m going to my room.”

“WHAT?! BUT WE HAVEN’T SEEN HIM FOR SO LONG!” Papyrus argues. “YOU CAN’T IGNORE THAT!”

“sorry, but i’m really busy,” the skeleton responds, and by some miracle Frisk manages to pick out the dying sound of his footsteps.

Papyrus sighs.

“MY BROTHER IS IMPOSSIBLE,” he says, and then, to Frisk’s surprise, lowers his voice so that he’s almost inaudible. “I asked him if something’s wrong, but he refused to tell me. This is partially why I want you to come, human. He’s always happy when you’re around! I’m sure you’ll make things better!”

Papyrus wouldn’t be saying so if he witnessed their quarrel. Sans wasn’t truly happy when Frisk wandered about in their house – he simply had to keep the friendly mask on. That’s what will happen if Frisk agrees to come now.

“I’m not sure I can help him, Papyrus,” he says.

But the skeleton isn’t that easy to convince. “Please, human,” he whispers. “You don’t know how it is. I’ve tried everything, even bought him a box of his favorite ketchup a week ago! But he’s not happy anymore, and hasn’t been for a long while...”

“But-”

“Human. I think he misses you,” Papyrus cuts him off. The words hit Frisk square in the chest: he knows Sans doesn’t miss him. Can’t be missing him. “I’d call you earlier if I could, but your old number didn’t work!”

Of course it didn’t. “Where’d you get the new one?”

Papyrus takes a moment to answer, and when he does, it’s even harder to distinguish his words. “I wanted to do some laundry this morning,” he mutters, “and found it in my brother’s pillow.”

“What…?” Frisk gapes at the wall. “How… Where’d he… Why?”

Naturally, Papyrus doesn’t have many answers.

“See, that proves he misses you!” the skeleton assures him. “Why else would he keep your number?”

“I… don’t know?”

Where did he get it?

“So, will you come?” Papyrus asks again, and makes Frisk consider.

He plays with the keys absently, calculating the potential outcomes for the event - this call has presented quite a number of shocking details.

In general, Frisk still thinks going is no go, so to say. Whatever reason Sans has for keeping a connection, it’s not yearning - otherwise he’d use it. It’s like him to be prepared for anything, though, so this may be just a piece of information he gathered… somewhere... for something. Right.

He actually made an effort to get it…

“I’ve got a better idea,” Frisk says. He’s positive it will leave him scarred, but better do now than arrive as a guest and suffer even more. “Can you pass him the phone?”

“Uh… I guess?” Papyrus answers hesitantly. “Hold on a second.”

While the skeleton makes it to his older brother’s room, Frisk tries to ready himself for the burning furnace he’s about to climb in: he and Sans parted on horrible terms, and this is going to be the first attempt at talking since the restaurant. There wasn’t any time for Frisk to prepare a speech, and his nerves are as good as naked, but he hopes he’ll come up with something decent.

“SANS?” He hears Papyrus’s voice and a muffled knock. “HUMAN WANTS TO SPEAK WITH YOU!”

He might not want to talk, but Frisk somehow knows he will open the door and take the phone anyway. Or maybe it’s what he hopes will happen.

…it does. Sans opens the door.

“alright,” he says. “thanks, papyrus.”

When he shuts it again, Frisk’s stomach jumps together with the sound, and he swallows as a soft clank indicates that Sans has the phone pressed to the side of his head.

“what do you want?” the skeleton asks. Frisk imagines him leaning back to the door while the sun caresses his bones just the way it did in the golden corridor.

“Hid it in the pillow, huh,” he says.

“yeah. wasn't my best decision,” Sans responds.

They keep the line silent for a while. Frisk struggles to gather himself, to think of a convenient topic: asking where the skeleton got his number should be pointless, he won’t tell… and what else is there? His unhappiness? It’s too early to be talking about that as well. Yet…

“What are you doing?” Frisk eventually asks.

“i’m leaning to the door, talking to you,” Sans answers. The image gets clearer. “why?”

“You know what I mean,” Frisk presses.

“yeah, that’s why i answered,” Sans presses back. So many years, and he is still the same.

Frisk hums.

“Papyrus is worried about you, you know,” he says. “He asked me to come over because he thinks you’re missing me.”

He hears a sigh and expects Sans to answer, but the skeleton doesn’t.

“I know you don’t.” Admitting this aloud is one hell of a torture. “Not after what happened. So… what’s wrong?”

“why do you think something’s wrong?” the skeleton asks.

“You haven’t told a single pun yet,” Frisk answers. “And you sound like you haven’t been telling many lately. Papyrus also told me you weren’t happy when he bought you a whole box of ketchup. Your favorite, I heard.”

He gets silence in response, again, then hears rustling: Sans slides down to the floor.

“should’ve hidden it somewhere else,” he mutters.

“You shouldn’t be having it in the first place,” Frisk corrects him. “I changed my number for a reason.”

“well, sorry to bring it to you, but you can’t just disappear without a trace.”

Frisk shivers, wonders if it’s okay to suddenly feel excited. “Why do you stay connected?” he asks.

“why do you keep going back?” Sans asks in return.

“I told you it’s complicated.”

“same.”

They’re getting nowhere with this.

“I kept coming back because there was something I needed to achieve,” Frisk tries.

“go on.”

“…and I got it,” he finishes with a lie.

“no, you didn’t,” the skeleton reads right through him.

“How do you know?”

“i just do.”

A rumble of thunder pierces through the air outside. Frisk flinches and flashes a glance at the window: a heavy grey cloud is coming his way from the forest. He’s got to hurry if he wants to avoid the rain… but all he does is lowers himself and places his elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t think you’d want to trace me,” he says. “Why? Isn’t living without me kind of similar to being freed?”

“some people can’t be freed,” Sans objects.

Frisk drops the keys. What is that supposed to mean?

“What do you mean?” he asks. It can’t be what he thinks it is.

“the old lady misses you,” the skeleton answers.

While it seems inappropriate at first, Frisk is aware that Sans never says inappropriate things. If he mentioned Toriel, it should mean she has something to do with all of this. He stomachs the thought, and soon the pieces begin to gather into a picture.

Sans has his number though he shouldn’t and can’t be willing to.

He’s not as cheerful as he used to be.

Frisk doesn’t spend a lot of his time watching his surroundings.

He grits his teeth.

“Don’t tell me you’re still fulfilling that promise,” he chokes out.

Sans chuckles humorlessly. “heh. told you they can’t. now, if you excuse me, i really have work to do. as for your visit… i won’t stop you, but believe me when i say i've seen enough of you already.”

 _That’s_ why he’s depressed. Frisk told him in detail about his ability to reset and shared his negative opinion on the entire race of monsters, then threatened not to gift them their happy lives. Sans must be waiting for him to reset and is bound to protect him at the same time – someone he doesn’t care about, someone he thinks will destroy everything in the end.

No one should be going through this.

“Y-you… you don’t have to do that anymore,” Frisk stutters. “Sans, I can take care of myself just fine, I’m-”

“twenty seven, i know,” the skeleton catches.

“-and I won’t reset, I promise, so please, _please_ , just… just stop, okay?”

A low, bitter laugh answers him. “thanks for that lie, kid.”

“I’m not ly-”

Frisk hears a click. Short beeps start pouring into his ear shortly after, and they descend through his nerves, setting them on fire one by one. When they reach his heart, they squeeze it in a painful grip.

_So many years, and Sans is still the same._

***

Frisk doesn’t like lying to Sans, that is why he does his best to convince himself that lying is not what he’s doing. However, lies cannot beat bare facts, and when he fails, frustration makes him bite his nails until he finds a credible excuse and a whole bunch of reasons that justify his actions.

Firstly, he’s not doing it for himself alone: he’s pretty sure Sans needs it as much as he does.

Secondly, he simply can’t leave things the way they are: the sole thought of having the skeleton secretly watching him made Frisk desperate to look around all the time, which led him to a state where he started having problems at work, not to mention his bed time. Restless nights, all attention towards the slightest of noises, tiredness in the morning, falling asleep during the day – Frisk got these and many more flowers added to his already rich bouquet.

And Sans – he learned that from Papyrus – isn’t getting any better, either. He’s trying to seem normal, but Papyrus knows him all too well and sees through that.

So, that’s it. He’s erasing it all and building a new life where he won’t tell Sans anything about his ability to reset – that will take some of the weight from the skeleton’s shoulders. Frisk will behave like a normal human child, get through the hardships, give everyone their good ending - it’s going to destroy him, but he doesn’t believe there is a better outcome. Maybe if he does everything right, he’ll come up with something in the future…

He just needs not to think about the “cute couple” by the barrier while he’s getting there.

“Howdy! I’m Flowey. Flowey the flower!”

Frisk stands before Flowey again, in the Ruins, wearing an eleven year old body of himself, a striped shirt and a knowing expression. He’s not happy, but the level of determination he’s feeling inside is like nothing he’s ever experienced. This is the last fresh start for everyone, and many wouldn’t thank the boy for granting it – especially Sans, and _especially_ if he was to find out he’s a part of the cause.

Frisk squats in front of Flowey and offers a smile.

“I know,” he says. “There’s some things I need _you_ to know, too.”

_“huff… puff… all right. that’s it.”_

The boy winces, and then freezes for a second – he can swear he’s heard Sans just now. But when he looks around, the skeleton is not there, and can’t be - the only thing that’s keeping this part of the Ruins from diving into silence is Flowey’s irritated rant about its memory wipe.

“Flowey,” Frisk cuts it off, “did you hear it?”

The flower stops mid-sentence and glares at him. “Do you seriously need to insult me further?” it asks.

“No, I… I swear I heard Sans,” the boy says. “So close, too… Do you think there’s any chance he might be here?”

“Here? No.” Flowey lowers its leaves. “He can’t get in here, _you_ from all people should be aware of that.”

Frisk supposes it is right: Sans has never entered the Ruins, that much is clear from his story. But what is this then, is he going insane from initiating so many resets?

“Tsk. Time to go now,” Flowey notes, alerting the boy of Toriel’s presence. “We’ll talk later.”

Frisk barely hears it. Barely hears Toriel, too – ignores most of her greeting, follows her and does what she asks him to do on autopilot while his thoughts are far, far away. He’s been in a similar situation before, in Waterfall: he heard Sans talking, but the skeleton assured him that he didn’t. The boy wonders how this can be possible – whatever it is he’s dealing with.

Something tells him things aren’t what they seem to be, but he can’t trace the thought to its source. And for some reason his head starts to feel heavy.

“My child?” Toriel’s voice calls him, and he gasps, startled. He blinks a few times and turns to take a look at his surroundings until his eyes meet the training dummy he should be talking to… only it’s somewhat different, stained. Frisk brings up a hand and touches one of the stains – it’s fresh, and clings to his finger like a living thing.

“Are you feeling okay, my child?” Toriel asks him, and he glances at her.

“I…”

Maybe he needs to lie down for a moment. He doesn’t recall anything like this; it’s unsettling, he needs time to wrap his head around it…

“I need to lie down,” he says. “Can we go?”

Worry flashes across Toriel’s face, and she approaches the boy immediately. “Of course.” She nods. “Of course we can. I’m so sorry, my child, I didn’t think you were feeling so weak… Here, let me carry you to your new home…”

She reaches out towards Frisk, and he raises his hand to take hers, only it continues to rise against his will. Frisk watches as it straightens, then rushes down, aiming at the woman who’s trying to help him.

What happens next is so quick Frisk barely manages to avoid hitting his target. He’s not standing anymore – he’s kneeling, instead – and the person he’s attacking is not Toriel, it’s Sans.

Sans.

Frisk yelps, and the edge of his knife hits the floor inches away from the skeleton’s chest. The clang that arises bounces from the walls of the golden corridor and jumps between the columns until it fades. Sans is lying on the floor with his eyes closed. His breath is heavy, and his chest is moving – he’s alive.

Frisk loses almost all of his colors when he realizes what he has almost done.

“Sans!” He gets closer to the skeleton and grabs his shoulder, then attempts to shake him awake. For a second, he succeeds: the skeleton opens his eye sockets, just barely, and the lights reappear in them – however, only for a second. Sans registers the boy’s presence, and that’s all he does before he falls unconscious again. Frisk shakes him once more, but doesn’t get any reaction.

He knows he’s got little time - soon the throbbing will turn into pain and he will lose himself – he needs to wake Sans up before it comes to that, otherwise the skeleton will be murdered in his sleep. How he can sleep in such circumstances is beyond Frisk, but he doesn’t dwell upon it for too long. Doesn’t have the luxury.

“Sans,” he gets braver and shoves the skeleton, but even that doesn’t work. “Sans, you’ve got to wake up! Sans!”

He’s not responding. Frisk takes his limp hand and calls for what seems to be his only option.

“Flowey! Flowey, are you here? I need you!”

He hopes it can hear him because if it can’t, the boy will have to make a choice: risk facing the king, run as far as he can, fast as he can and pray he won’t find his way back until Sans comes back to his senses, or kill himself and force a rewind that in its place will drag him back to step one.

Fortunately, it doesn’t come to that. Just as Frisk begins to feel panic uncoiling in his gut, Flowey’s voice rises from behind him.

“He won’t wake up now,” it says. Frisk spins around, catches the flower with his eyes. As soon as he does that, Flowey jumps back and hides most of its body behind a pillar - scared of losing its life, the boy assumes.

“Frisk?” it asks carefully.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not hostile yet,” he assures the flower. “And while it lasts, we need to talk. I’m afraid you’re the only one who can help me now.” He nods at Sans, “Is there anything I can do to bring him back to us?”

Despite the promise, Flowey stays where it is. “No, he spent half a hundred of resets fighting. He’s too exhausted to hold up. And I can’t even be happy about it because I don’t feel safe anymore.”

“Damn.” Frisk squeezes the skeleton’s hand, taking comfort where he can. “So, what do we have? What does the king say?”

Flowey snorts. “What do you think he says? He’s waiting with his arms open. Got the SOULs and doesn’t use them.”

“So…?” The boy lifts an eyebrow. “Why don’t _you_ take the SOULs then? They should make you powerful enough to reset the timeline.”

The flower glares at him. “And how exactly am I going to do that?”

“I don’t know, steal them?” Frisk shrugs. “You’re pretty smart, Flowey, you can get past him. Better than sitting here and waiting for the other me to return”.

“Chara.”

“What?” The boy asks, puzzled.

“Not the other you,” Flowey explains sullenly. “There’s you, and there’s Chara. Chara is responsible for this mess.”

“…huh.”

No wonder Frisk’s memories turned into jelly. Having someone else residing inside him, taking control of his body – those are things that would make anyone disoriented. He can’t even think of where he could pick such a parasite.

And Flowey looks like he knows this “Chara” person. In any other case the boy would ask for details, but alas, there’s no time, so he has to hold his horses.

“We can talk about this later,” he says. ”Go, take the SOULs. I’m gonna stay here and try to wake Sans up. If you don’t reset before Chara starts coming back, I’ll have to kill myself: it’s too dangerous to let us live while he’s knocked out.”

The flower seems unconvinced, doesn’t look at Frisk anymore. Chara must mean something to him, to a creature that shouldn’t be feeling anything at all. It’s new and confusing, and the boy can’t let it stand in their way.

“Flowey,” he says, “who do you think comes after Sans and Asgore?”

The implication is firm enough to pull the flower out of its stupor. It flinches, straightens its stem.

“Frisk… I…” it mutters hesitantly.

“You’re a survivor, Flowey,” the boy cheers it up. “Have always been. So do us a favor and survive once more, okay?”

Pain twitches in the back of Frisk’s head as soon as the words leave his mouth, and it takes all of his strength not to let go of Sans’s hand, not to show Flowey how weak he’s become. He has to endure.

The flower nods. “Alright. I’ll try.”

It disappears under the floor, leaving Frisk to deal with the sleeping skeleton and the pain. The boy is playing with fire, but what alternative does he have? He keeps his fingers crossed. Figuratively.

Frisk puts the knife by his thigh and places a hand on Sans’s shoulder – he’s still sound asleep. Normally, a rough shake is enough to wake someone up, but he’s an impossibly heavy sleeper, and-

And…

Wait a second. This is convenient…

Frisk gulps. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking what he’s thinking, not when everyone’s lives are hanging on a thin thread, but… love does crazy things to people, especially to those who are deeply heartbroken. He can’t blame himself for considering a little, harmless experiment before he resumes the shoving session…

Sans is lying on his side, calm and defenseless before the boy, and is too out of it to catch him in the act. Besides, one way or another, this will soon be over, and Frisk won’t get another opportunity. If he passes this one, he will blame himself for the rest of his life.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and props himself on his elbow. It’s stupidly romantic: him holding the skeleton’s hand and his shoulder, all this golden light around them, this silence… Frisk only wishes Sans was the one initiating this.

When his lips touch the skeleton’s mouth, he stills completely: it’s all different, nothing like his fantasies. There, it depended solely on the boy’s imagination. Here, he can feel how solid and warm Sans’s teeth are, how his breath tickles his cheeks. Frisk fears to wonder what it would be like if Sans was responding.

The boy thought his ghostly version was perfect, but now he has a few adjustments to make. He lies down, and his fingers trace along Sans’s clavicle – sadly, that’s when the pain reminds about itself. With a hiss, Frisk jerks away, presses a palm to his forehead… and notices that the lights in the skeleton’s eye sockets have reappeared.

He hears the world around him collapse, and it’s ironic how the pain subsides as soon as shock bursts in. Frisk stares at the lights, speechless and mortified, and Sans lies on the floor motionlessly, smiling. God, _the smile_.

“I… I… I was…” the boy stutters, unable to pick an excuse.

And Sans, he doesn’t make it any easier with his silence. Well, at least he’s awake now…

“Oh my god.” Frisk covers his face with his hands and rolls on his back: he’s so embarrassed he’s ready to commit suicide just to escape this. “Oh my god…” he repeats, then spreads his fingers to glance at the skeleton. “Can you at least say something to make me feel better?”

Sans takes a long while to answer.

“hi,” he eventually offers.

Frisk groans. “Ooh myy goood.” He’s got it stuck on repeat. The boy swallows a lump that feels like a mountain, considers getting to his feet but opts not to – there’s nowhere to run, anyway. “I swear, Sans, I tried to shake you awake, shouted at you, shoved you, almost kicked you, everything… and all it takes is a goddamn kiss?!”

“apparently,” the skeleton agrees. Frisk can’t read through him.

“Just… I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t expect you to wake up from this, I swear I didn’t! Forget about it, please. It never happened. You woke up by yourself, yeah? How’s that sound?”

Sans doesn’t even stir.

“fetishist,” he says, sounding so amused Frisk looks forward to killing himself more than once.

“Goddamn it, Sans,” he mutters. “Would you stop doing that? This thing, it’s... important to me, you know. And you’re not showing any reaction.”

“heh.” The skeleton follows Frisk’s example and rolls on his back. “you want reaction? alright, how about i'm relieved?”

Someday, the boy will die of heart attack. He spares another glance at Sans, tries to read through his expression again. Fruitless.

“B-because I k-kissed-”

“no, that was weird,” the skeleton brushes him off. “your desire to kiss me? it’s beyond me, kid. i was talking about me being alive.”

“…oh.” Figures.

Sans turns back to the boy. “i’m supposed to be dead,” he goes on, “but you’re clearly not the person i was fighting earlier.”

“Yeah, thanks for noticing,” Frisk sighs. “Anyway, you don’t remember it, but we’ve met before. I told you I lost my ability to reset – that’s why we’re here.”

Finally, amusement comes off the skeleton’s face.

“But I sent Flowey to get the SOULs,” the boy continues. “It should be able to re-launch the timeline. Everyone will be revived.”

“you sure about this?” Sans asks.

“Yeah. Too risky not to do that,” Frisk says. “It’ll help.”

“alright. so, we wait.”

They fall silent for a minute or so. Frisk thanks the gods for getting away with minimum consequences, and Sans watches past him with a thoughtful expression. The boy didn’t expect him to be this relaxed: after all, everyone out there is dead, and Flowey carries their fates in its leaves… but then again, the skeleton didn’t think he’d ever wake up, so this must be natural.

Feels good to be lying here together. It’s been ages since Frisk hung around Sans like this, with no arguments included. All these years ago, if he’d known the skeleton wouldn’t mind being kissed, he’d have gone ahead and kissed the hell out of him.

“why’d you do it?” Sans asks. Frisk wonders if he has an ability to read minds.

“Kissed you?” he specifies.

“yeah.”

“Well…”

In all honesty, Frisk has thought about it countless times, yet when the question arrives, he forgets the entire language. The “love you” answer seems ridiculous.

But should he really be caring at this point? It’s either die or reset, anyway.

…the pain slowly returns.

“There’s this joke,” the boy begins, ignoring it. “One day, a human and a skeleton are lying next to each other in a golden corridor, waiting for salvation…”

It’s harder than he thought it would be.

Sans looks at him in curiosity. “and then what happens?”

“And then…” Frisk inhales through his nose; the pain is growing. He’s running out of time, and at such a moment, too. “And then the skeleton asks why the human kissed him. That’s the part where I usually laugh,” he adds.

Sans waits for the rest of the “joke” without interrupting. Too bad Frisk’s vision is getting weaker, and he can’t see the skeleton’s face properly anymore.

“And the human says… I love you.”

Pain spreads everywhere, and the boy has to struggle to keep his eyes open. He’s got to warn Sans before it’s too late.

“frisk-” the skeleton starts, but he doesn’t let him finish.

“You need to get up now,” he says. “It’s returning...”

He feels Sans’s fingers curl around his elbow. It’s pleasant, cheers Frisk up a little.

“Buy Flowey some time,” he asks, spending the remains of his energy on pushing the knife out of his reach.

.

.

.

.

In the beginning, Frisk liked Toriel a lot. It was she who prevented him from falling prey to Flowey’s “friendliness pellets”, who offered him food, clothes and a nice house to stay in - who went so far as to suggest living together like relatives. The boy wasn’t looking for a new home, but he was touched by her hospitality, and family was something he both lacked and sought, so he stayed.

It was good at first: Toriel took the role of loving mother, and Frisk was glad to accept that since his own mother was… well, not very motherly, to say the least. Toriel was nothing like her: she made delicious pies, did laundry, kept the house clean, told interesting stories… in other words, she grew on him, and he didn’t expect anything bad to happen.

Boy, was he wrong about that.

Frisk got bored with his surroundings pretty quickly, and it didn’t occur to him at first that he was actually _banned_ from exiting the Ruins. When he asked Toriel to let him see the underground, she forbade that and sent him to bed early, telling him she’d come play with him in the morning. She did come, but the look on her face was shadowed by an ominous kind of concern.

With time, Frisk learned what it was: possessiveness. Toriel wasn’t protecting him because he needed to be protected. She protected him because _she_ needed to protect someone. The boy was but a pet, a caged animal, and so was Toriel, but she didn’t or didn’t want to realize that.

It was then when he started to think about escaping. And eventually he did, but Toriel was so offended by his stubbornness she made him promise he wouldn’t come back. The days Frisk spent at her house were probably the best days he’d ever had in his whole life, and she took them away so easily and just because he wanted to step outside.

The boy wasn’t this wounded even when he got killed right outside Snowdin. He did, however, develop an opinion that he wouldn’t find a caring soul no matter where he looked. Sans, the exception he was hoping to get, turned out to be no exception at all.

Through years of pain and rejection, Frisk learned to forgive him.

Him, but not Toriel. Toriel wasn’t ever honest with the boy: she didn’t tell him about Sans and his promise, or about her true identity, or about… a lot of things, really. And then, she had the nerve to take what Frisk wanted most but was doomed to never achieve. She took the skeleton.

It hurt real bad.

Earlier this day, when the boy was listening to one of her stories before getting to bed, he wondered if things would be better if such a liar never existed. Since then, his memory started to get fuzzy…

And now he knows why. The last thing he recalls is seeing Toriel in his way to the exit; he’s got a toy knife in his hand and a ton of anger pushing down on his shoulders. Frisk can’t understand why he moves towards her when he does, why he’s so eager to strike… and then, the room shifts and falls into darkness in front of his eyes. That’s it. There’s nothing to watch anymore.

“Greetings,” an unfamiliar voice rises. Somehow, Frisk knows who it belongs to.

He turns around. “Chara.”

“Mm,” the voice agrees. “So, you know. But, it is not important anymore.”

Little white snowflakes glimmer in pitch black; Frisk raises his head but can’t see anything other than them even though they glow bright like tiny fireflies. Something bumps into his leg while he’s staring, and when he bends to pick up the object, his fingers come across its familiar shape, and he realizes what it is. Papyrus’s skull.

Sans’s precious brother. Dead.

Frisk presses the skull to his chest.

“This is not real,” he mutters.

The darkness then creeps away, letting Chara into his view: it’s a child in a striped shirt that resembles his, and they have similar hair. They look much alike in general, but Frisk isn’t certain if he’s facing a boy or a girl.

That, however, doesn’t hold his attention for long, because the next thing he sees is that Chara is holding a skull in their hands as well. A skull that belongs to…

Frisk pales.

“This is not real…” he repeats weakly.

The circle continues to grow until it becomes big enough to show that they aren’t alone in this place. There’s a pile of corpses lying on the snow behind Chara; Frisk can see Undyine, Alphys, Mettaton… everyone. All of them are dead.

No, wait. Everyone but Flowey and the king. And the corpses didn’t turn to dust, so this must be an illusion. What for? Did Chara create it, or is it his own doing? It might be.

“Ugh…” Chara winces, brings a hand to their temple. It doesn’t escape Frisk’s notice: he’s scared, but if Chara is hurting, that has to be a good thing, right? He needs to ignore the illusion and focus on that.

The boy drops the skull - it disappears before it reaches the ground.

“Sans has defeated you, hasn’t he?” he asks.

Chara shakes their head. “No.”

But Frisk does not believe that. “What are you doing here, then?” he asks.

“I have come to make a deal with you before I proceed,” they answer.

Frisk is not stupid, he knows what deal they’re talking about. He is captured, locked inside his own body, but he can get out of it sometimes, sending Chara to sit in the cage instead. They’ve got to be wishing for a full access so the boy doesn’t interfere with their plans anymore.

“Your power awakened me from death,” Chara says. Their voice trembles with pain. “You. With your guidance. I realized the purpose of my reincarnation. Power. Together, we eradicated the enemy and became strong.”

Frisk thinks Chara might be referring to Toriel, since that bit he can still remember - even if just the beginning. It was them who killed her.

“This pointless world is almost destroyed,” Chara continues. “Let us erase it, and move on to the next. We can be partners.”

Frisk smiles: there’s no way he’ll become partners with someone who tried to possess his body. Who wiped out the entire underground. Attacked Sans again and again...

Chara got themselves caught into a trap and wants out – oh, how annoying it must be to depend on the host.

“You’re offering me partnership? Chara, all I wanted to do was let go...” he says.

“But you did not,” Chara objects. “And now you cannot return, because you no longer possess that power. Come with me, it is your only choice. We can be strong together.”

As they are saying that, a little sprout grows through the snow beside their feet. Frisk catches it with his eyes, smiles softer.

“You’re right, I can’t go back.” He nods, then steps forward and approaches the child. Chara doesn’t move and doesn’t protest when he takes Sans’s skull from their hands. The boy places a chaste kiss on its forehead and lets it disappear too. Then he wraps his hands around Chara and lets the pain envelop them both.

“But I know someone else who can,” he whispers into their ear, and closes his eyes.

Flowey’s sprouts pierce both children right through.

***

Frisk jerks awake and coughs, eyes going wide in a spontaneous attempt to register what’s going on around him. Unfortunately, colors and lines refuse to merge into shapes, and all he can see is a mix of gold, red and green.

His body burns like it’s been thrown into a heated oven - his chest hurts the worst, so he checks it and finds a huge hole in his shirt. The fabric is wet, presumably from blood, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess what happened while he was keeping Chara distracted.

The floor beneath him shifts.

“Frisk?” he hears Flowey’s voice. Not the one it usually uses, too: this belongs to its different, monstrous form, the omega.

Frisk gasps and rubs his eyes with his wrist, trying to make the picture at least a little clearer. It helps, and soon he sees vines and giant green sprouts - Flowey is holding him. Its screen doesn’t show any rage or desire to hurt: the flower is simply puzzled, waits for his response.

“It’s me,” Frisk chokes out, “I think I’m dying.”

“You might be,” Flowey says. It sounds relieved. “Funny fact, Frisk: I could not reset, either. Not before I weakened you first. And, uh… I don’t recommend looking at yourself while-”

The boy does just that; not because he wants to disobey the flower, it just happens on instinct. Blood is not the first thing he notices - it’s dust, a whole lot of it.

Sans’s dust.

“Told you…” Flowey sighs, noticing the change in Frisk’s expression. The boy lets out a muffled sob, grips its leaves.

“Just… reset…” he pleads. “Please. I swear I’ll do anything for you, just... reset…”

Above him, Flowey sighs again.

“You’d better.”

***

When Frisk comes to his senses again, he finds himself lying on a bed of yellow flowers. He’s back in the Ruins, safe and sound and so very happy to be here again, to breathe the fresh smell of grass instead of the smothering, deadly air of the golden corridor. And it gets even better when he glances up, and his power winks down at him: it’s back, and so is every monster of the underground. Sans is alive.

Flowey made it possible.

The boy can’t help giggling as he turns to his side - there it is, his savior, rises over the other flowers even in its normal form. Flowey looks at him, doesn’t speak. Frisk decides he might begin with some gratitude.

“You saved me,” he says, and smiles warmly. “Thank you, Flowey.”

A strange, deep emotion flashes across its features, and it averts its eyes, suddenly uncomfortable with the boy. Frisk frowns, hoping he didn’t say anything wrong.

“It had to be done. I was the next target, Frisk,” it mutters. “It probably means nothing to you, but I cared about Chara. A lot.”

The boy starts to doubt everything he’s ever known about the flower, especially the SOUL part. He doesn’t know why this occurred, but Flowey behaves like a living creature with its own set of emotions. Chara may have done something to cause that…

“Did I ever mention the name of my human friend?” it asks, and _then_ it clicks. Frisk sits up, pushing the flowers in all directions.

“It was Chara? Your friend?”

“Yeah.” The flower nods. “You didn’t get your hands on the tapes, I take it.”

“Tapes?” the boy repeats, quite certain he didn’t come across any. “No…”

“I see. Well, now you know. I really hope you won’t make me regret my decision... even though I guess I’d return here sooner or later anyway.”

After all this time Frisk finally gets it, that he doesn’t know everything, that there are still things that he’s missing. He knew Flowey had a human friend when it was still a monster, but didn’t bother to ask for the name. Because of that, he feels stupid and ignorant, and Flowey? It deserves much more than some filthy piece of butterscotch-cinnamon pie, it deserves a friend. Frisk was so obsessed with his own misery he didn’t notice.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Flowey doesn’t look surprised by the apology, simply nods again. It opens its mouth to say something, but closes it as distant footsteps rise from the direction of the tunnels: Toriel is coming their way. The flower frowns, shakes its head, and for once, the boy doesn’t want to separate, either.

“Before I go, do you want to know how the skeleton died?” Flowey asks.

“No,” Frisk answers, “but tell me anyway. Did he die in his asleep?”

“No,” the flower says. “Chara read through him at some point. Tried to convince him you were coming back and then attempted to “commit suicide to prevent that from happening”. He was too exhausted to do any of his tricks but tried to interfere anyway. He left an opening.”

Frisk lets it sink, then hides his face in his palms. He thinks he might pass out.

Sans died, trying to protect him.

“Great,” the boy mutters. This reset? The last. Frisk swears to himself that he won’t return to this place, ever. He won’t let his anger get the best of him and won’t hurt anyone. He’ll solve the puzzles, break the barrier with Flowey’s help and then get lost to never be found again.

Sans can have his freedom then.

He only has two adjustments to make: ask Toriel to cancel Sans’s promise when the barrier is broken, and…

The footsteps are approaching. Frisk crawls closer to Flowey and lowers his voice.

“Listen,” he says, “I know I’m no Chara, but I want to try being your friend. When all of this is over… do you, maybe, want to come live with me on the surface? I’ve got a nice garden and a whole forest for a neighbor.”

The flower flinches, stares at him wordlessly.

“I won’t tell anyone about you, and you’ll be free to explore all you want,” Frisk goes on. “Beats sitting here all alone, Flowey. And we can always come back and water these flowers. It’ll be fine. Just think about it, okay?”

Flowey looks to the side, still silent. At the same moment, Toriel appears in the boy’s view, and they’re out of time.

The flower groans.

“I’ll think about it,” it says, and disappears under the ground before it is spotted.

***

When Frisk finally makes it out of the Ruins and breathes in the cold, crispy air of the forest, he leans against the closed door and allows himself a small rest. He thinks he did pretty well back there: anger lurked in the back of his consciousness like a venomous snake, but he was careful not to listen to its whispers: one Chara per lifetime is more than enough, and he’d rather have them dead than going berserk all over the underground again.

That, and Frisk is attempting to maneuver in his new way of life, the one he named “Flowey helped me understand I was an asshole, so I’m trying to be nice”.  He spent too much time hiding in his thick shell to give chances to anyone but Sans, and now that he’s been through hell and purgatory combined and gained an opportunity to see things from a new perspective, he’s willing to change for the better. And surprisingly, even with anger, it works.

He marked the start of his rebuild by throwing away his opinion on Toriel’s possessiveness and replacing it with compassion. It wasn’t easy, but the boy is diligent when he needs to be, and that’s what he’s planning to do from now on.

“Alright.”

Frisk spares one last glance at the door and starts following the road he knows all too well. He’s aware he won’t make it to the town without bumping into the skeleton brothers first, and looks forward to seeing both of them. The only thing he worries about is meeting Sans: he’s got too many fresh, raw feelings about the skeleton’s death, and thus isn’t sure he’ll be able to play it cool around him. With his level of perception, Sans will undoubtedly detect holes in Frisk’s behavior and start questioning them.

Still, it’s not like the boy has any other choice. He can only move forward now, so he does.

Soon enough, he hears footsteps. The branch breaks, and Frisk doesn’t look back – he won’t find anyone there, anyway: Sans doesn’t appear earlier than he has to, that’s a rule of this world. The boy doesn’t rush, and lingers outside the bars like he usually does, waiting for the skeleton to approach. For a second, his mind races back to the corridor again, and he’d better stop thinking about that now, otherwise he risks losing his composure.

Footsteps come to a halt right behind him, and that’s how he knows it is time. Silence stretches and then melts into words – the words Sans always greets him with.

“ H u m a n.   D o n ’ t   y o u   k n o w   h o w   t o   g r e e t   a   n e w   p a l ? ”

Frisk stills, attempts to keep his frayed nerves at bay. Just a few days ago Sans died, turned to dust and covered his weak, broken body - all thanks to the boy’s foolishness. The image serves as a permanent wallpaper of his soul now, prevents him from forgiving himself.

“ T u r n   a r o u n d   a n d   s h a k e   m y   h a n d . ”

Frisk hurries to comply before he chickens out and lets the decorations collapse. It’s too much for him to handle, though: as soon as he sees the skeleton unharmed and with his hand stretched out in a friendly manner, his emotions burst through the dam. The boy grits his teeth as tears tug at his eyes, and grabs the offered hand a little too tightly: Sans’s fingers press awkwardly against each other, and the skeleton flashes him a look.

“jeez, kid, relax.” A lone drop of sweat rolls down his face. “these are breakable, you know.”

“Ah… s-sorry.” Frisk quickly lets go and hides both hands behind his back. Indeed, why doesn’t he break Sans’s fingers? He’s killed the guy once, so that’s a great idea!

 He almost groans.

“don’t sweat it,” Sans winks. “anyways, you’re a human, right?”

Right. So far so good, and the skeleton proceeds with his speech while they’re making their way towards the conveniently shaped lamp. Besides dropping the whole whoopee cushion subject, Sans doesn’t say or do anything new, which somewhat soothes Frisk’s distress. Despite that, the boy stays on alert just in case the skeleton decides to throw in a hint or two.

***

As time passes, Frisk struggles to discover if Sans is haunted by the images of his own death or if he’s experiencing any déjà vu vibes - unfortunately, the skeleton stays neutral until they part, and Frisk has to take an additional step.

He spends his first and last night at the brothers’ house and leaves for Waterfall early in the morning, intending to check if Sans will follow him to the cave - but the skeleton doesn’t. Everything’s back to normal, save for, maybe, a few occasional glances he sends the boy’s way.

There’s just one tight spot remaining up ahead - the MTT restaurant.

Frisk bears a strong desire not to approach the skeleton when he ends up by the building, but he understands the necessity of this encounter and dives into it anyway. He owes that much to both Sans and himself, and his heart… well, it will heal.

…

…only it doesn’t get ripped to shreds this time. After finishing the food-drink-friends part of his monologue, the skeleton skips the entire “door knocking” story and goes straight for “see you soon”s. Dumbfounded, Frisk gapes at him, and his jaw almost falls to the floor. His look screams “been there, done that” but he’s too shocked to disguise that.

“W-wait!” the boy blurts out when Sans turns to leave. “Is that all you have to- I mean- What about… Uh…”

“what, you were expecting something else?” Sans asks, looking over his shoulder.

“No, I… I mean… we’ve just come here. Aren’t you hungry?”

“ah. nah, not really.” The skeleton shrugs. “it’s on me, though, so enjoy your meal. later.”

And just like that, he walks away, leaving Frisk with some serious jaw issues and a blank mind. The boy is so stunned he can’t move, and his brain is too used to the “dead where you stand” line to be able to grasp the idea of not having to deal with it.

***

Sans surprises him once again when they reach the surface. By this time, Frisk’s thoughts are outnumbered by persistent glimpses of hope - hope he thinks he no longer deserves, not after what he’s done. He is so busy rejecting his potential happiness it catches him off guard when the skeleton joins him by the mountain edge.

“all’s done now, eh?” White lights slip away from the setting sun and focus on Frisk, and the boy feels like a tiny mouse that’s trapped on a rapidly sinking ship. He can’t get it why Sans is addressing him, why he’s not sticking to Toriel when he should be.

“I guess…” He tries to smile, but it comes out crooked. “I have a few places to visit. It’s been a while.”

“so you’re not staying, then,” Sans notes.

“No.”

Frisk would sacrifice _everything_ he has to get Sans to tag along, to invite him to his small house by the forest, to watch the pilot episode of Mettaton’s brand new show together… to ask for a phone number at least. But he can’t. He can’t afford to beg for the skeleton’s friendship anymore - his death sealed it. Sans wants to be free, and Frisk must grant him that wish.

“You should head after Papyrus,” the boy says, hating how he needs to end this conversation even though it’s just begun. Every word feels like a dagger on his tongue. “He’ll get himself into trouble without you.”

 _Please,_ he cries internally. _Please, stay with me._

Sans hums, offering a hand. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah.”

_Don’t go._

Frisk takes it in his own. This is no whoopee cushion joke anymore, this is real. Sans will leave, and the boy will find a way to make Toriel cancel the promise, erasing the possibility of them meeting ever again.

This time, it’s a final good bye…

“kid, i told you they can break,” Sans laughs. Sunlight slides over his cheekbones, and Frisk wants to kiss him so bad.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, withdrawing his hand. ”I’m so sorry…”

“no worries,” the skeleton brushes it off. “what’s with the tears? we’re not separating for good, are we? and none of us is dying, so don’t feel sad.”

Frisk manages a nod.

“besides, it _tears_ me up to see you cry.”

At this, the boy chokes out a muffled laugh. He doesn’t mean it, knows he will miss those puns like monsters missed the sun when they were forced to stay below the ground.

“Alright.”

He lets Sans slip through his fingers and watches him go towards a life that will never be rewinded.

“I promise,” he whispers and rubs the tears away.

He only needs to speak to Toriel now.

.

.

.

.

.

.

***

Frisk taps his fingers impatiently against the leather armrests of his chair as his eyes follow the girl that revolves around him with a pair of scissors in one hand and a hair brush in the other. Her own hair is so massive he’s surprised she hasn’t cut a bunch of braids yet.

She’s taking ages with what she said would be “a freakin’ awesome haircut”, and though it really seems like she’s getting there, Frisk is starting to get worried about the bag that rests on a chair nearby. Flowey isn’t an embodiment of patience, especially when it has to sit tight in a dark space and without any possibility to complain.

As he’s thinking that, a buzzing noise rises from the bag, and a low hissing sound follows it. The girl laughs.

“That ringtone is amazing! I swear your phone sounded like it wants to destroy the person who sent you this message!”

“Yeah… heheh…” Frisk chuckles nervously, watching as a piece of yellow petal sticks out threateningly from a thin gap. “Uh… So, um… I don’t want to be rude, but… I’m in a bit of a hurry here.”

“Aah don’t worry about it, dear!” the girl grins. “Give me fifteen more minutes, and you’ll be sooo good looking, girls all over the town will be fighting over a date with you!”

“…right,” he mutters.

Thankfully, she doesn’t lie (about the first part, at least) and soon Frisk escapes from his leather prison. He catches the sight of himself in the mirror now that the job is done, and has to admit that he likes what he sees: he looks like some foreign model whose monthly salary can afford a huge apartment in the city center.

“You like it?” the girl chirps.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Thank you.”

“Come again~!”

Frisk pulls on a smile and picks up his bag. Flowey rustles inside, and he thinks he hears it say something rude, but it’s too quiet to tell for sure.

He pays for the haircut and exits to the street where his bike is waiting, chained to a fence. Flowey peeks out and lets out an annoyed sigh.

“I thought I’d die in there,” it says. “Next time I ask to join you, remind me about this.”

Frisk chuckles. “Deal. It’s about four p.m.; we need to drop by the store, and then we’re free to ride back home.”

“Great. I’m looking forward to it,” Flowey grunts. “By the way, it was just spam. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m not,” Frisk responds, unlocking the chain. When he’s done, he places it next to the pot where the flower resides. “It’s been four years, Flowey.”

“Yeah, well, we both know how stubborn you are,” the flower says. Frisk puts the bag into a square basket he attached to the handlebar for such cases, swings his leg over the bike and hits the pedals.

“Mind the wind,” he reminds. “We want to get home earlier than midnight this time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Flowey grunts.

They make a few quick purchases at the store (Flowey insists on buying noodles) and direct their wheels towards home: it’s not a very long ride, takes about fifteen minutes if Flowey keeps its head within the bag to avoid getting its stem broken. However, it enjoys observing the surroundings as they fly by, so they spend a couple of minutes arguing until Frisk adjusts the lid to allow some extra space for his little passenger.

Despite everything, he’s glad he has Flowey by his side.

Living together feels far better than existing separately. They share their meals, discuss TV shows, play games and read; Flowey even spends occasional nights on Frisk’s bed table when the weather is raging outside. It’s a good reward for breaking the barrier.

Nobody knows, but they spent their fighting time drinking sweet tea, and Asriel beamed happily the entire time. Frisk, as well.

“We’re almost there,” he says. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” the flower answers. “But I really want to get down already, I’m all stiff because of this stupid pot.”

“Mmhhhm.”

As soon as they stop by the garden, Frisk pulls the pot out of the bag, and Flowey releases its roots into the ground. It looks satisfied by the freedom it regains and wanders off towards the buttercup bed he planted for its comfort.

“Call me when food’s ready,” it asks.

“Of course. Give me an hour or so.” Frisk grabs the stuff they bought and carries it inside to the kitchen. He’ll cook something later - first comes the shower. He simply can’t wander around knowing he carries pieces of hair on himself and on his clothes.

Later, when the meal is ready, Frisk opens a window and calls the flower as he promised. They settle on the couch and turn on the TV: the MTT show has already ended, but Papyrus’s cooking lessons are about to begin. Flowey doesn’t admit it, but he’s quite fond of the skeleton and always enjoys watching him work. Which can’t be the case with a soulless object, but Frisk decided not to care anymore.

He leans back into the cushions and sends a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth. It burns a little, but he’s fixed on the screen.

“NOW TAKE THE PARSLEY,” Papyrus’s loud voice announces as the camera catches the ingredient in his hand. “WE WANT OUR SPAGHETTI TO HAVE A UNIQUE, RICH FLAVOR!”

Flowey darts an unimpressed look at Frisk. “I wish yours looked as delicious,” it says, and it’s funny, because Frisk made it spaghetti too, and the plate is almost empty.

“I’m no chef.” He shrugs. “Look, he’s adding the meat now.”

Both of them glue their eyes to the screen again where the skeleton chops and seasons. Frisk drools even though he’s eating already, and he’s pretty certain Flowey does the same.

“JUST ADD SOME MORE OF THIS DELICIOUS PARMESAN NOW.” Papyrus hovers over the steaming dish. “AND A BIT OF BLACK PEPPER ON TOP.”

“Oh my god,” Frisk mumbles. “I should have started watching these years ago. He’s so talented.”

The skeleton moves on to the dessert: a divine-looking ice-cream with chocolate chips, and that’s where Frisk starts to seriously consider going back on his decision to stay away from the others. Mesmerized, he observes as Papyrus mixes the ingredients, and a faint knocking sound doesn’t reach his ears immediately. When it does, though, Frisk lowers the empty plate he forgot to put away and looks over at Flowey.

“You waiting for someone?” he asks, and the flower glares at him. “Alright-alright, I’m just joking.”

He hops off the couch and walks out into the hallway. They don’t get many visitors: sometimes people get lost in the area and ask for directions. That’s what Frisk expects to deal with when he opens the door, but when he’s about to turn the handle, something inside him stirs. Something old and very, very necessary. Frisk freezes, questioning the sharp feeling.

The knocking repeats.

“Who’s there?” he asks reluctantly. It’s ridiculous, he knows. But what if-

“ask,” a muffled voice answers. On instant, Frisk’s heart jumps to his throat.

He must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or both.

“A-ask who?” he stutters.

“ask yourself,” the voice advises.

Frisk jerks the door open so hard he almost breaks the hinges. He doesn’t see Sans right away, and it takes a couple of seconds to understand he needs to look down - there he is, short like Frisk remembers him, wearing the same hoodie and the same shorts. The skeleton is grinning.

“heya, kid. been a while,” he says. “you’ve grown.”

Frisk grabs the doorframe for support. His knees are giving out, and so is his brain, his lungs, his heart and the rest of his body.

Sans is here.

Sans. _At his house._

The world turns upside down.

“I-I… Why are you…” he squeezes the frame, trying to calm down. “What brings you here?”

“a story,” the skeleton answers. He doesn’t look bothered by the lack of invitation to come in. “remember back at the restaurant when you thought i was going to say more than i did?”

“Y-yeah…”

“well, you were right, partially.” Sans takes his hands out of his pockets and folds them across his chest. He still wears gloves. “i didn’t want to talk about it then. but i want to talk about it now.”

“Sans, it’s been four years…” Frisk squats so that they’re closer to the same eye-level. “Why now?”

“because i was waiting for you to take everything away,” the skeleton admits. “i’m no stranger to time shifts, as i'm sure you already know. and there are these... memories? in my skull that hint at events that didn’t happen – not in this timeline, at least.”

He rubs his right humerus through the cloth, and Frisk gulps, wondering what events exactly he is talking about.

“What kind of events?” he asks. Papyrus’s voice thunders from the living room – he’s preparing another dessert. Sans notices, seems to approve.

“we can talk about that later,” he responds. “as for now, there’s something important i need to tell you.”

Frisk nods. “Go on.”

“back to the story,” the skeleton continues. “i used to be a sentry in snowdin forest, you’re aware. and i made this promise to toriel. to watch over you and protect you… she asked me to cancel it, by the way. your doing?”

“Yes.” Frisk looks away for a moment, feeling embarrassed. “I wanted you to live for yourself.”

“i see. so you know the rest.”

“Yes.” Frisk closes his eyes with a sigh. The “dead where you stand” part still emerges in some of his nightmares.

“and you know what would have happened if toriel hadn’t said anything,” Sans goes on.

“Yes.”

“nothing would have happened, frisk.”  
  
“Yes.”

Silence dawns upon the hallway. Frisk waits for the skeleton to add something, but Sans doesn’t.

Then, it hits. Frisk feels the hairs on his body straighten.

“Wait...” He stares at Sans in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“i said, nothing would have happened. i wouldn’t have attacked you.”

Frisk slides down to the floor completely. He doesn’t talk and doesn’t move – doesn’t even acknowledge Sans’s presence anymore. He simply sits there, motionless, as tears take over him and slide down his cheeks.

Despair, hopelessness, sleepless nights took thirty one years of his life.

This is it? He’s won?

In front of him, Sans puts his hands back into their usual positions and adds in a soft voice:

“i’ve missed you, kid.”

That’s all it takes. Frisk lets out a strangled cry and throws himself at the skeleton, his self-restraint thrown away and forgotten. They tumble to the ground together, Sans’s hands wrap around him, and he’s crying into a clavicle like an eleven year old boy.

***

A short beeping sound escapes into the warm air as the clock shows midnight. Frisk looks up from the book he’s been trying to read for the last fifteen minutes, acknowledges how late it is and returns his eyes back to the pages. He’s got no intention of going to sleep while the shower is running.

Sans is staying over, much to Flowey’s irritation. The skeleton still hasn’t learned anything about what happened after he’d died and thus treats it with caution, which in its turn causes the flower’s annoyance, but that’s okay. They’ll get over it.

Frisk sighs, decides to focus on the book again. The plot is intriguing and deserves more attention than he’s giving it; tells a story of a merry group of young musician misfits who travel around the world and gain popularity. There’s this singer who’s got daddy issues, this guitarist with no control over his bad habits, this piano girl who’s obsessed with pink… and then there’s this naked skeleton in the bathroom, and Frisk can swear the author loves this guy because he included a bunch of explicit pictures. Too many of them, actually.

He groans. It’s no use.

The book departs to the table, and Frisk slides down until he’s lying flat on the bed. The sound of rushing water is driving him mad. This whole day is driving him mad. If someone had told him in the morning that Sans would suddenly come visit after years of absence, he’d have never believed. And yet there he is, wet in the bathtub and probably smelling like coconut soap Frisk bought earlier.

…he shouldn’t be thinking about this. Gets him unnecessarily excited. Sans will be sleeping in the living room anyway, like they agreed, and nothing else is going to happen. Besides, the skeleton got weirded out by the kiss, so it’s not like he’ll be willing to dive back into that…

Where do these thoughts even come from?

“Just go to sleep,” Frisk tells himself. Wounded by this decision, his heart declares holy war against his common sense, but he’s used to disappointing himself and thus reaches out to turn off the light.

The bathroom falls silent, stopping him short.

He lets the light be.

Nearby, a door opens and then shuts again, and Frisk holds his breath as he waits for Sans to choose a direction: the bathroom is located between the bedroom and the stairway, so he can either go left for a talk or right for some sleep - it depends on what he wants more. Honestly, there’s no way of telling. When heavy footsteps break the silence, Frisk’s anxiousness leads him to believe that the skeleton has chosen the couch, that’s why he practically jumps when Sans peeks into his room instead.

The t-shirt he’s wearing is too large, his sternum is showing.

“hey. mind if i come in?” he asks, and Frisk pulls up the blanket: he’s wearing clothes, but somehow they don’t seem so sufficient anymore.

“Sure. Go ahead,” he invites.

He expects Sans to take a chair, but the skeleton ignores it and goes straight for the bed. When it dips under his weight, Frisk crawls back to the wall because Sans does smell like soap, and there are small drops of water rolling down his skull and falling into the opening below. He’s wearing Frisk’s clothes, too, which only worsens the situation on the south.

Frisk realizes he’s got a problem, and if the skeleton does so much as take a look at his face, he’ll be busted and ashamed for eternity.

Thankfully, Sans seems to be concerned by other things.

“we’ve got some catching up to do.” He sounds grave serious. “kid, it’s important that you get it right. there may not be a second chance.”

 _This_ is their second chance, if Sans is referring to the restaurant quarrel. Arousal or no, Frisk’s been waiting for this. “I’ll try,” he promises.

“good. now, i need you to be honest with me and tell me everything from the start. you know what i mean, right?”

“I know.”

The change of mood is remarkable. Sans doesn’t look angry despite the sore subject, and when he leans forward and places his elbows on top of his bare knees, it’s evident that he’s willing to give Frisk all the time he needs. Frisk fidgets, tries to tear his eyes away from the outline of the skeleton’s spine. He wants to touch it, just once, to learn how hard it will feel against his palm.

“let's see if your story matches the scraps i have.”

 _Focus,_ Frisk tells himself, but it’s no easy task. Not when Sans is sitting like this, with his back open, with his bones slack - with zero defense up. It’s pure trust right there, and Frisk is so affected by it he can’t concentrate on anything else.

He attempts to create a distraction.

“It all started when I fell in love with your brother,” he says in a monotone voice. Waits for it. Sans responds almost immediately; his skull snaps up, and the expression he’s wearing when he turns around is priceless. Frisk chuckles. “Okay, okay, sorry about that joke. All of this is just so… intense. I need to loosen up a bit.”

The skeleton straightens his back, takes a moment to think. Then nods. “i guess you’re right,” he agrees. “it does feel intense. sorry, kid.”

“’m not a kid…” Frisk pouts, and prepares to launch a long monologue now that Sans is facing him properly. However, his train of thought derails when the skeleton pulls his legs up and drags them on the mattress, acting so confidently like it’s something he does on daily basis. Clumsily, he settles right beside Frisk, and that leaves the latter speechless.

He’s so red he must be shining brighter than the lamp.

“what, you’re the one who suggested taking it easy,” Sans grins. “been a long day, so i decided to lie down too. does it bother you?”

Oh, it does. Frisk doesn’t even know where to begin describing how hard it’s bothering him.

“no, it’s fine,” he lies. So much for being honest.

“great. back to the topic, then.” Sans says this, and _turns to face him_. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed how their proximity is affecting Frisk, and the goddamn t-shirt opens far more than necessary, making Frisk stare at the exposed bones like some crazy pervert.

Where is Sans going with this? They’re supposed to be having a vital conversation!

…maybe it’s revenge of some sort? Maybe the skeleton remembers everything and simply wants to punish Frisk for his sins?

“Alright.” Frisk hugs himself in a futile attempt to calm down. ”You wanna hear it? Here it is. I fell to the underground once. Discovered a power within myself. A power to reset.” He’s speaking so fast he’s practically eating half of the words. “I wanted to see the rest of the underground, so Toriel let me. When I promised not to return to the Ruins. Ever.”

“she was afraid of hurting herself.” Sans stands for her. “i think she still blames herself for this.”

“Maybe.” Frisk agrees. Sighs. “Anyway, long story short, I learned that the underground was a lot less friendly than I initially thought. No one wanted me to stay, monsters frequently attacked me, and I grew more and more restless with each passing day. The only one who seemed to really care about me was… well. You.”

White lights dim as Sans gets the drill. “what exactly did i say to you?”

“You said that if Toriel hadn’t asked you to protect me, I’d have been dead where I stood. It’s a direct quote, I got it memorized.” Frisk smiles bitterly. “Imagine how “happy” I was to hear those words from the only person I warmed up to, the only one I trusted.”

Sans looks away. “wow, kid, i… don’t really know what to say.”

“It damaged me, but I led you monsters to the surface anyway. Thought no one cared about me, and separated from the rest to come live here. Even though…” The phone call comes to Frisk’s mind, and he rubs the back of his neck to lift some tension. “Even though I think you continued to fulfill your promise. Then, I went back.”

“to change things?”

“Yeah. I was hoping I’d be able to see them differently and… maybe convince you to befriend me for real. But it didn’t work, and I got crushed again and again. Until that one reset.”

“i think i know what happened,” Sans suddenly says. Frisk looks up at him.

“You remember?”

“i remember being furious. you must have told me.”

“Yes,” Frisk confirms. “I got tired of being wounded and just… spilled everything out. Told you how old I was, how much harm I’d gone through… told you I was past caring about the monster race. Man, you looked so angry I thought you’d attack me.”

“i may have considered that. i'm not very fond of time shifts, believe me.”

“I figured.” Frisk feels embarrassed about his outburst now, and would give anything to avoid talking about it, but he can’t. “I knew something was off but… I was so wound up by our nonexistent friendship I was happy to get at least some rise out of you. That anger… it was pure. Sincere. I let it be.”

“you didn't reset right away?”

“No. I was tired. I gave up.”

Frisk catches himself when his eyes drop to the sternum again: it’s distracting, and he reaches out to hide it under the t-shirt without thinking. Sans watches him but doesn’t do anything about it, doesn’t complain when Frisk leaves his hand pressed to his ribs.

“I didn’t reset,” Frisk continues absently, “and returned here. Then, five years later, I got a call from Papyrus. It surprised me because I’d changed my number and didn’t understand where he found it. You know how he explained it?”

“how?”

“He told me he’d found it in your pillow. I was stunned. Asked him to pass you the phone. That’s how I found out you were bound to the promise… and that’s how I decided to reset again.”

A thin, cool hand covers Frisk’s, and when he glances down he’s shocked to see bones.

“You’re not wearing gloves,” he says.

“i just came out of shower,” Sans reminds him. “surprised you haven’t noticed.”

“Happens. It’s the first time I’m seeing them.” Frisk brushes one of his fingers against the skeleton’s. “They look nice.”

Sans snorts. “no, they don’t. anyway, go on.”

Frisk savors the feeling before continuing: it breathes Waterfall, but Waterfall wasn’t honest, and this moment is. “I didn’t think asking Toriel to cancel the promise would do anything at that point,” he says. “So I went back, planning not to tell you about my power. That’s where things went downhill.”

“i got killed?”

“Worse. I got possessed by Chara’s spirit. A murderer that wiped out the underground while I was stuck in my own memories.”

“chara?” the skeleton repeats. “ _the_ chara?”

“Yeah. Flowey can tell you more about that.” Frisk moves forward slowly, presses his face to Sans’s ribs: they’re holding hands already, so this should be acceptable. He needs support, needs to feel a solid body against him to know he’s not imagining all of this. Sans lets him. “My ability got scrambled. There were a few occasions when I woke up into reality, and you were there, trying to defeat Chara, and by extension me. I got myself killed several times, but eventually we managed to understand each other. Still, I couldn’t reset.”

“yet we’re here now.” The words sound so close to Frisk’s ear now, he almost feels them on his skin.

“Thanks to Flowey,” he reveals the truth. “You died while you were trying to protect me, and that was enough time for it to get the SOULs. Flowey is the one who saved us.”

“flowey the flower…?”

“Yes. It’s the reason we’re here instead of being dead. And I think that about covers it. Five resets, and I’m never going back. We’ve all had enough.”

The story fades, and for a while Frisk simply lies next to the skeleton, enjoying the quiet and letting Sans stomach the concept of Flowey-The-Savior. He can take his time, this is pleasant, especially when there’s finally nothing left to hide-

“there’s something else, though,” Sans interrupts his thoughts. “something you didn’t mention.”

“Uh…”

…okay, maybe there _is_ one thing Frisk deliberately sneaked his way around, but only because the bridge might collapse under his feet if he tries walking through. He looks up, ready to come up with an excuse, with _anything_ , but Sans’s eyes meet his, and suddenly, the bridge is everywhere. Frisk gets it how little space there is between them, how their fingers are intertwined, and can’t stop looking at the white lights. A shiver runs down his body, rushes directly to his groin.

Bad. Very bad.

Frisk fears that Sans will feel it if he doesn’t move away, and attempts to do just that, but the skeleton wraps a hand around his middle and holds him in place.

“where do you think you’re going?” he asks. “you had no problem being this close before. what’s up, kid?”

He might as well ask what’s down… or wait and encounter it because having himself trapped is one of Frisk’s many kinks that get him hard so quickly it should be… yep. There goes. He’s in trouble again.

“Ithinkyoushouldletmego,” he blurts out, squirming.

“nope,” Sans refuses stubbornly. “i told you to be honest with me. get it out.”

Frisk misunderstands the command horribly.

“No, listen, this is serious…” he still tries. “It’s affecting me, I swear, I can’t, I just-”

“tell me.”

That’s final. Sans isn’t letting him go until he confesses; he must have remembered the kiss or one of those dropped “I love you” lines - if not everything at once. Frisk panics, thinks he’s not ready for this even though he’s been ready for ages, feels frightened, doesn’t want to ruin this, and-

To hell with it. He grips the back of Sans’s skull and pulls him down, kisses him hard, crashes his lips against the skeleton’s teeth- whatever it is. His eyes are shut tight, and so is his mouth: he’s too nervous to do this properly. What’s properly, anyway?

At least the hand around him loosens.

 _Chill,_ Frisk tells himself. _He asked for it, so he will have to roll with it. He’s the one guilty._

He leans back, glares at the empty eye sockets; Sans looks way too surprised for someone who’s been expecting this turn of events.

“uh… okay,” he mutters. “that’s really weird.”

“Weird?” Frisk lifts an eyebrow. “How is this weird? You cornered me into this!”

“no, uh… not that. wait.” The skeleton is at an obvious loss of words, and it’s a first. He looks everywhere but Frisk, too. “the kiss itself is fine. enjoyable. for me, at least... what i can’t understand is why you’re up for it, or why you’re currently uh… harder than me. so to say.”

He nods down, and Frisk is certain that not only he’s harder than Sans, he’s also much paler now. He gathers himself, though – no turning back now. Better be defiant. “What’s so surprising?”

“i'm a skeleton,” Sans points out. “what’s arousing about that?”

Frisk frowns, then separates his hand from Sans’s to place it on his sternum instead. The skeleton flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“This,” Frisk says, his voice hoarse. “I’m pretty sure you can feel this.”

“…i can,” Sans agrees reluctantly. “but what does it matter? i’m just a bunch of bones, frisk. you’re a human. i’m not suited for this.”

There’s been a time when Frisk pictured him saying something like this- god, he’s lying, most of his fantasies started with this very statement. It may be this, or it may be the skeleton’s uncertainty, but the result is one and the same: Frisk accepts his words as a challenge. His need gets an upper hand, and he’s filled with so much determination it boosts his confidence to a whole new level. Frisk pushes the skeleton on his back, and does so without any doubt.

“Yeah, well, let’s see.” He says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice, and Sans doesn’t seem to recognize it either: he fidgets, clenches the blanket and presses his bones down to the mattress as if he believes the bed can absorb him.

“w-wait, kid, hold on a second-”

Frisk ignores him, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pushes it up. Despite the verbal protest, Sans doesn’t put up a fight and allows him to remove the cloth, and beneath it his ribs are thick and heaving. For the first time, Sans looks livelier than any human, or monster, or any other living being Frisk has ever seen and heard of. He’s sweating, he’s stiff, and his breath is heavy - but he’s still there, still willing to see what will happen, how this will end.

He could easily destroy Frisk if he wanted.

Dead where he sits.

Frisk keeps that in mind as he straddles the skeleton’s pelvis, and he’s rather certain about what he’s doing until a soft sound escapes Sans’s teeth and punches his self-control square in the face.

“k-kid-”

Frisk feels like he’s been drinking for hours even though he’s never turned to alcohol, not even on the darkest of days. Every word Sans is saying now goes straight to his groin, and the skeleton must be feeling how hard he is, with their fronts pressed together like that. “I doubt words will suffice, so let me just show you. Maybe then you will understand how contagious your reactions are.”

“i… i’m not-”

“ _Wrong_.” Frisk lowers his head and kisses a rib, just slightly, and that earns him a short moan. “I’m like this because you’re responding. Because you’re shaking. You say you’re just a bunch of bones, but these bones can feel, can’t they? You said so yourself.”

“when did i… s-say …”

Frisk glances at him with a smile – oh, how clearly he remembers that conversation. That roller coaster of emotions it pulled him through. That maybe-not-so-false hope. Overwhelmed and driven by the moment, he gives an unintentional thrust, and that action alone almost wipes the remains of his sanity. Sans shudders violently under him, grips his shoulders with so much force it’s painful.

“ _a-ah_ … when…”

“In Waterfall,” Frisk answers, his voice unsteady from arousal. He kisses another rib, then traces it with his tongue as he moves to the sternum. “You told me you can feel touches, just differently, and I nearly went insane thinking about that. Eventually it led me to…”

He trails off in favor of licking, gets to the clavicles. Sans is a mess already: the dots aren’t focused, and it’s pretty easy to figure out how foreign this territory is – a truth the skeleton himself, though indirectly, admitted. Frisk puts two and two together, thinks about Toriel, about the times that actually never were, and a surge of possessiveness rushes into his blood, efficiently suppressing him. He thrusts again, powerless against it, and his brain almost blacks out.

“I kissed you… before.” He punctuates the sentence with new, wet kisses. “In that corridor. You were so exhausted… you fell asleep, and I. Thought I could escape with it.”

Sans doesn’t even hold back anymore, answers with a low moan and buckles his bones up, trying to repeat the thrust. His smile is twitching, and the tips of his fingers dig into Frisk’s skin like little sharp nails. Frisk can’t tell if he remembers, but the image of them kissing obviously tempts the skeleton, so he goes further.

 “Wanna talk about dirtier things?” The question comes with a smirk. “Like, about you being so hot I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about you?”

“frisk…”

 _The name_. It’s the name that makes Frisk stop short and throws the unsaid out of the window. His mind becomes blank, free of everything, and the pain in his arms dull. Sans’s hitched breaths blur in the background. For a second, Frisk looks through him, sees nothing but the name leaking out from between the skeleton’s permanently sealed teeth.

He hasn’t seen this coming. Not this.

His hands are trembling when he gets a firm hold of Sans’s pelvis, and he doesn’t warn the skeleton before acting. He simply thrusts - again, and again, and again, and then it’s impossible to stop. He’s weak, conquered, stripped of his humanity and imprisoned by irresistible lust. Under him, Sans chokes out a gasp and meets the friction despite the hold, and his moans are turning into one incoherent thread. Frisk bites a clavicle to show his approval, and that’s all it takes to get them both lost.

Again. Frisk needs to hear it again.

“frisk- _ah_ - _ngh_ , fr-”

This is so much better than he expected. He’s the one who’s setting the pace, pinning Sans down, but somehow it feels like it’s Sans who’s leaning over him, Sans is the one in control. Just with one word he erases all boundaries, pulls Frisk into madness, makes him wild.

“Damn, you feel so…” Frisk mutters between bites and kisses, “so good… I should have… done this earlier. Tied you up… Jumped you while you were asleep. God fucking damn it, done this to you right… by your outpost… in Snowdin. You remember?”

Sans nods fiercely, thrusts back like his life depends on it. Frisk had no idea he was this good at talking dirty; he can’t even understand how his brain is able to come up with words at this moment. Still, he continues, and sucks the skeleton’s bones while he’s at it.

“How about… the MTT restaurant, hm? On that very table. You really like it… don’t you? You pick it all the time.”

“ _nngh_ … _agh_ …” is all Sans manages to utter as his hands slip from Frisk’s shoulders and go for his hips instead. Frisk’s sure he’ll find nasty bruises in the morning, but he doesn’t care about that now – he’s going to be done soon, this is too much for a first time.  The skeleton is almost there as well, that much is clear from the amount of moans and shivers he’s producing.

“Wait- _nh_...don’t tell me. It’s the corridor. Right? I know… _ah_. I know it is.”

Immediately, one hand shoots to his neck and yanks him down forcefully. Frisk complies, covers Sans’s mouth with his own, licks his teeth. “Come on,” he whispers. “Come on, Sans… I know you’re about to come. Want me to lick you down there…? To suck your bones? Just say so…”

Not only bruises, maybe a few cuts, too. Sans moans Frisk’s name once again as he comes, convulses everywhere, arches into the body above him. The skin on the back of Frisk’s neck is ruined, and his hips are burning - still, it only takes a few additional thrusts for him to follow. The wave that washes over him is so powerful he almost misses it how Sans holds him down, their mouths flat against each other.

Later, they lie still, catching their breaths. Sans has a humerus resting under Frisk’s complaining neck, and Frisk searches for his other hand to intertwine their fingers again. For moral support. He’s thirty one, and he feels like a guilty teenager… which is also true because he’s fifteen.

“You okay?” he asks the skeleton tiredly.

“i’m not sure what just happened,” Sans admits, “but you’re one sick bastard, making me picture all those scenes.” He doesn’t mean to be rude, hugs Frisk closer to prove that. “i'm not gonna pretend i didn’t like that, though.”

“And I’m the sick bastard here,” Frisk snorts, pulling the blanket over them. The couch option is off the table now.

“i didn’t know it would feel this way.”

“Me neither. Not until you reacted to my touch.” Frisk shifts, adjusting himself better. Sans is right about the human part: bones aren’t skin and muscles, they’ll have to find a comfortable position before falling asleep. “Kind of makes me happy I was the one to show this to you. I thought… I really thought Toriel would be the one.”

“toriel?” An amused chuckle follows the name. “kid, she’s a good friend, but we’re not into each other. not like that. besides, she’s still crazy about her ex. they'll get back together eventually.”

“Oh.” Frisk suddenly feels royally stupid about not asking him earlier: he was so certain about their mutual feelings it didn’t even occur to him to question its actuality. He wants to apologize for that, for not trusting Sans when he should have.

Chances are, the skeleton has been planning to sort things out for a while, and when Frisk thinks about their phone conversation, he sees it differently. Holy shit.

Sans presses the side of his ribs to Frisk’s chest. “i never left you,” he says quietly.

Frisk’s blood fills with electricity, and he lifts his chin to meet the white lights. “What do you mean?”

He thinks he knows the answer.

“i appreciate your attempt to set me free,” Sans explains with a genuine smile, “but a promise is a promise. it can’t be just cancelled. i never stopped watching over you.”

…for the second time this day, Frisk feels tears in the corners of his eyes. He leans in and places a sweet kiss on Sans’s mouth, whispering “thank you”.

***

It’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and Frisk shudders in Sans’s arms, releasing on the skeleton’s palm and his white shirt. They should have probably removed the cloth before getting to business, but Frisk was so eager he simply forgot, and Sans isn’t the type to refuse spontaneous pleasures even if he’s working and there’s nothing but a chair at their disposal.

When the trembling ceases, he pulls his fingers out, carefully, not to disturb the sensitive flesh. He’s really good at getting Frisk off by now- no, that doesn’t cut it, he’s a goddamn pro. That’s the only explanation Frisk has for all the times he’s been satisfied by nothing but _bones_ in him and around him.

But at least he’s a pro as well, and knows from experience when and how to please his skeleton. Right now is a perfect time: Sans is stiff under him – not from Frisk’s weight but from his own frustration. His eyes are dim and foggy, glued to Frisk’s mouth, and it’s not difficult to understand where he pictures it.

So Frisk pays him well by getting rid of the dirty shirt and sinking to his knees. Sans doesn’t possess anything but his bones, but that much is enough because some of them are no less sensitive than anything Frisk himself possesses. Maybe even more: Sans loses it rapidly under his tongue, grips his hair, turns into jelly mere minutes later.

It’s so perfect Frisk doesn’t want it to end.

“thanks, kid.” Sans still uses that nickname even though Frisk is reaching his twenties. “got the jobs?”

“Sure.” Frisk zips his pants and picks up the discarded shirt. “Toriel wants me to start on Monday, and I barely got away from Papyrus.”

“heheh. he really likes you.” Sans smiles.

“Yeah, I know. How’s your research, by the way? Still not telling me what you’re working on?”

The skeleton looks away immediately, and Frisk thinks he’s sweating, or maybe that’s still the aftermath. Thing is, Sans has been busy lately with something important enough to keep him awake at nights, and for some reason he doesn’t want to tell anything about it. Frisk appreciates the trust he’s getting (after all, Sans wouldn’t have started anything serious if he wasn’t certain about his decision not to reset), but curiosity eats him alive. He can hardly keep himself from burying the skeleton under his questions.

“I guess I’ll just continue waiting then,” he says. “Just don’t make me wait forever, okay?”

“deal.” Sans beckons him for a kiss.

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Dirty liar.

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***

Frisk is sixty eight. More, if he cares to count. The sun paints the walls of his bedroom orange as it descends to the horizon, and he’s lying on his bed with a book in his hands and a sealed bottle of water for company. It is not his choice - nature made it for him.

Frisk can’t walk.

He can’t say he lived a sad life. When Sans came back, both of them gained something strong and beautiful – happiness. They learned to trust each other, to love each other, to support each other at greatest times of need. Neither expressed any desire to leave the other.

But now Frisk feels like all of it is coming to an end. His days are setting together with the fiery disc. He’s ill beyond medical help, and his power is melting, barely visible anymore if he calls it. He doesn’t want to use it, and will not - for Sans’s sake. For the sakes of everyone he’s come to care about.

Papyrus abandoned his show to serve as a maid at their house. Flowey - even “without a SOUL” - spends most of its time by Frisk’s bed, watching his condition. Sans…

Sans is busy with his research. Frisk still knows nothing about it.

“kid.”

He opens his eyes and looks at the entrance, muttering the usual “I’m not”. The skeleton comes in with a bunch of papers in his hands, looking tired: there are bags under his eye sockets, and his bones are slack. He didn’t get any sleep last night.

That aside, he’s still the same: young, smooth, attractive. Loyal. It pains Frisk to see him wearing himself out like this. At least he’s got the papers, that must mean something good, right?

“What, you’re finally done with it?” He smiles.

“no. i need more time,” Sans mutters in response. He approaches, sits on the corner of their bed. “we don’t have it, frisk.”

“Sans.” The old man smiles softer. “You are not aging.”

Despite that being true, the skeleton presses on. “no. it’s important that you are with me. otherwise all of this is pointless.” He drops the papers on the blanket, and there, as always, are a lot of formulas and equations Frisk can’t understand.

“Sans-”

“frisk,” the skeleton interrupts him. “i want you to go back. need you to do it.”

He sounds serious. Frisk puts the book away.

“I never thought I’d hear this from you,” he says. “This is a massive rewind, you know.”

“i know.” Sans takes his hand, squeezes it. “i know you promised me not to reset anymore, and i'm thankful for that. but there’s not enough time. please, frisk. do it for me.”

“That’s one crazy research you’re doing, eh?” Frisk chuckles weakly and pulls the skeleton closer. “Come here. Lie with me.”

Sans complies, climbs over the man and settles beside him carefully. He looks so nervous about all of this that Frisk can’t help cheering him up. Besides, he’s sick of being a sick old man who’s chained to the bed. Why not go for a walk if they’re up for it?

“I love you,” he says. “And I’ll do what you ask, but we need to make sure your research doesn’t go to waste. Any idea how we can preserve it?”

His decision washes off all the troubles from Sans’s face. The skeleton sighs in relief, reaches out to grab the papers and hand them over to Frisk. “i have all i need written right here. you’ll have to memorize everything.”

“Ah. So I’m a messenger from the future.”

“sort of,” the skeleton agrees. He caresses Frisk’s chest, then wraps a hand around him.

“Are you sure you will recognize me?”

“one hundred percent certain. i got a few codewords, too. just in case.”

Frisk looks over the papers, accepts the challenge even without knowing their origin or purpose. “You’ve got everything ready, and I don’t even know what this is all about…” he says.

At this, Sans beams, propping himself on his elbows. “hey, kid. how about you ask me when we meet again? you’ll love it, i promise.”

The sun envelops them, and Frisk knows he will do his best to learn the contents as fast as humanly possible. He raises a hand, palms Sans’s cheek.

“Alright. Would you mind calling Flowey and Papyrus, then? I need to warn them.”

***

First thing Frisk does when he’s back to being eleven is drop on the bed of flowers and roll around. Flowey hisses at him but doesn’t put real effort into it: it remembers a fair part of their mutual past and seems pleased to see the boy at his full power. Together, they begin their new adventure towards the surface.

The Ruin dwellers greet the boy as one of their own despite seeing him “for the first time”, and Toriel even gives him a kiss on the cheek before sending him to bed. She also resists far more fiercely when he asks her to let him go... and this once, Frisk is grateful.

But nothing makes him happier than the sound of the breaking branch. He stops, smiling broadly, and turns around with a shout:

“Sans! Come out!”

Of course, the skeleton approaches from behind. He taps the boy’s shoulder and probably takes a step back because when Frisk tries to grab his hand, he catches nothing. Sans scowls at him, watches... and then the emotion smoothens. The skeleton breathes in, drops his eyes to the snow.

Calculates. Counts. Attempts to remember.

Fails.

Frisk smiles again. “Don’t worry about it,” he says warmly. “I’ll tell you everything, from the start. You will remember.”

Sans doesn’t look convinced but nods.

“just in case.” He watches the boy closely. “what’s the codeword?”

Frisk grins, puts his hands on his hips like some awesome superhero, and announces proudly:

“I’m the legendary fartmaster!”

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The couch at the skeleton brothers’ house is as soft as Frisk remembers it. He can’t reach both armrests with his hands and legs even if he stretches, and it makes him feel so small he giggles. His illness, his unusable legs – all of that is in the past.

Earlier, he wrote down everything he’d memorized, and as soon as Sans got his hands on the papers, he went upstairs to his room and still hasn’t emerged. Frisk knows he needs time to study the data and thus doesn’t disturb him, waits for him to come out on his own.

And Sans does come out. The clock shows minutes after midnight, and he’s wearing just his t-shirt and shorts. His expression is cautious, heavily concerned. The smile isn’t very good at hiding that.

Frisk expects him to start a conversation, to ask for details, but the skeleton surprises him when he grabs the blanket and climbs onto the couch.

“S-sans?” Frisk crawls back to give him some space. “What are you doing?”

“lying down next to an eleven year old. also listening to my instincts,” the skeleton answers. He doesn’t touch the boy but doesn’t move to the very edge, either. “the data you gave me… it’s quite interesting.”

Frisk nods, smiles at him. “I know. You spent years on it and even asked me to reset so you’d be able to finish! Which reminds me…” He shifts a little closer to the skeleton. “You asked me to ask you what the whole thing is about.”

Sans lets out a sigh. Presses a palm to his forehead. “so, i didn’t tell you, after all.”

“Nope,” Frisk confirms. “Curiosity is killing me.”

“heh.” The skeleton rolls on his back and folds his hands behind his skull. “did i really grow that attached to you, kid?”

“I think so,” the boy answers. “And? What is it about?”

Sans doesn’t answer instantly. However, when he does, his smile is open, and it feels like they’re back at Frisk’s house again, joking around and enjoying the comfort they give to each other.

Sans looks happy.

“i was trying to find a way to make you immortal,” he says. “the data is not finished, and there are some holes, but i think i can work with this, and… frisk. what’s with that face?”

The boy just stares. All the sleepless nights Sans spent working on this, all the hours, all the months, all the years… he probably didn’t tell anything because he knew he wouldn’t make it in time, or because he feared he wouldn’t be able to find anything. He didn't want to give false hopes.

And now, as Frisk looks down, he understands why the skeleton is so happy. He shudders, feels like he’s about to cry.

Sans’s smile falters. “kid, i… if you don’t want to-”

But he doesn’t finish, Frisk shuts him up with a kiss. Sans stiffens under him at first, grips his shoulders… and then gives in and relaxes, sinking into the cushions. Embraces the boy with both hands. Frisk gives his teeth a tiny lick of gratitude and whispers:

“Thank you.”

They spend most of the night awake and have a bad time in the morning when Papyrus wakes them up with his loud voice.

“GUESS WHAT WE’RE HAVING FOR BREAKFAST TODAY~~~!”

**Author's Note:**

> A really nice person I've never personally met drew what I would love to call the true cover of this story. You can see it [here.](https://pp.userapi.com/c824411/v824411663/12aad6/zGaVlgWtl3A.jpg)  
> Thank you, I really appreciate it!


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